The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  “He is a fluke,” the Premier snaps, finally stung. “My king, I urge you to consider the greater good. The Light provided by thralls supports the infrastructure of the entire kingdom—everything, from the economy to the sewer systems. Without Light, your cities would collapse. Your armies would be crippled. Millions would lose their livelihoods. The kingdom would fall into poverty and ruin—and for what?

  “For the sake of a few who, for the small price of lending us the necessary energy to continue as we have, lead largely comfortable lives. Perhaps a few could survive without the Pall, but the vast majority could not. What would be gained by killing them and at the same time destroying the realm you are sworn to protect?”

  All is silent. The councilors’ eyes turn to me. Some are hostile, some troubled, some sympathetic…but I know every one of them is weighing my freedom against their own comfort.

  “As distasteful as I find the idea,” the king says at last, “it is a valid objection. Porr, what have you to say to that?”

  “As to how Kingsgarden will cope with the loss of Light, none of us can say,” the Apostate says, shaking his head. “What I can tell you is this: In the world from which our thralls are reaped, there is no Light, and in some ways that world is far more advanced. I say also that the Premier’s claim that the majority of thralls would die is incorrect. Approximately three out of every five thralls survive the Pall’s removal.”

  “Little more than half,” the Premier points out. “My king, you most graciously allowed this—girl—a demonstration. I beg leave to present my own.”

  “Granted,” the king replies.

  Though the king’s voice betrays no hint of emotion, the lines around his eyes and mouth seem suddenly deeper. I catch Luca’s eyes, and my stomach sinks as I find confirmation there—this isn’t going well.

  “My dear, if you would,” the Premier says to Cimari, who nods and disappears through the door to the corridor.

  After a moment, she returns accompanied by two House acolytes and a pale, vacant-eyed thrall. Though clean and clad in a plain but serviceable gown, she bears the undeniable marks of prolonged imprisonment and starvation: white, waxy skin; watery eyes squinting at the light; deep shadows under her eyes…and, of course, the hopeless, mindless indifference of a thrall.

  The girl stares straight ahead. A lock of golden hair falls over her face, but she makes no move to push it away. That hair…I look closer, examining what I can see of the girl’s face. No, it can’t be…but it is! It’s Pouter, my nemesis from the Cage. Nausea fills my belly. No matter how irritating I found her then, I don’t want her to die now—and I’m sure that’s what they’ve brought her here to do.

  “Wait.” My voice emerges in a thin, strangled whisper. “No, stop—”

  But it’s too late. With an exaggerated ripping motion, the Premier tears a strip of—something—out of Pouter. It looks like a shimmer, or a ripple. Something half-seen and half-felt, with undefined edges. I have no more than a millisecond to register it before a raw, agonized shriek erupts from Pouter’s mouth.

  The king leaps to his feet, shouting, but the Premier continues, tearing the Pall away from Pouter’s mind and body. It’s over in seconds. Pouter’s lifeless body lies crumpled on the ground, her face still twisted in pain and fear. Sweat pours down my body as I fight the urge to vomit. No one should have to die like that. No one.

  “That was ill done,” the king says, lowering himself back into his seat. Once there, he grips the arms of his chair with white-knuckled fingers. “I gave you leave for a demonstration, not an execution.”

  “With respect, my king, I felt it necessary to illustrate what it means to remove the Pall,” the Premier says. “I see that you are shocked, and for that I beg your forgiveness. But surely it is better that you know what it is these people are proposing?”

  “Of course the girl died,” the Apostate says, his face flushed with anger. “So would a patient under the care of a violent and incompetent Healer. What’s more, you can see for yourselves she was already near death. Look at her! She was skin and bones. She should have been returned to full physical health before any attempt was made to remove the Pall, and it must be done in stages, ideally over the course of several days.”

  “And yet, even with every proper procedure and precaution, the success rate is anything but overwhelming,” the king observes. He spreads his hands. “What am I to do with this?”

  “The risk is too great,” the Premier says, an expression of sorrowful regret spreading over his face. “Is it not better to live, even in thralldom? I remind you again, thralls live comfortable lives that many of our poorest citizens would envy.”

  “It isn’t better.” Every eye in the room turns to me. “It is worth the risk.”

  A spark of anticipation enters the Premier’s gaze. “And you would be willing to take this risk yourself, would you?”

  “I would,” I say without hesitation. “I am.”

  He turns to the king. “If I might make a suggestion, my king?”

  “You may,” the king says shortly.

  “The girl presumes to speak for thralls all over the kingdom,” the Premier says, though I’ve presumed no such thing. “Let her demonstrate her sincerity. Let her undergo the removal here and now. Porr contends that the subject must be returned to good health, and so she has been. Porr can even perform the procedure himself if he believes my own skills are not up to the task. Though I think we cannot confine the Council to this chamber for the several days he claims are necessary. Let it be done now, in your presence.”

  “Ridiculous,” the Apostate snaps. “It takes time—”

  “Furthermore,” the Premier goes on, raising his voice. “If she proves unwilling to accept the risk, consider, my lords, that perhaps the possibility of death is indeed enough to justify our continued…custodianship.”

  “My king—”

  Miocostin holds up a hand, silencing the Apostate. He remains silent for several long moments, his gaze distant. But he must be aware of the muttering and shifting of his Councilors. They don’t want to think about this. They’re only even half-willing to listen now because I’m standing right in front of them. If we release the Councilors for the days it will take to remove the Pall safely, they’ll likely go home to their comfortable and pampered thralls and convince themselves that nothing needs to change, that it’s all for the best. My bones turn to jelly as I realize that I am well and truly caught. I can’t refuse, and I can’t wait.

  Finally, the king lifts his head.

  “Let it be done now—if Sasha chooses.” He meets my eyes steadily, his face betraying no hint of emotion. “You are, as you said, your own person. The decision must be yours.”

  I don’t look at Luca or Sadra. I can’t. My own fear is hard enough to bear. I swallow and nod once, my heart pounding

  “May I have a moment to speak with the—with Porr?”

  “Of course.”

  The Apostate and Bard are at my side even as the words leave the king’s mouth.

  “Is it possible?” I ask softly, looking up at this stranger who now holds my life in his hands.

  “Yes,” the Apostate replies. “But it will be dangerous…and very painful.”

  “It was already dangerous,” I say, more to myself than to him. “And I’ve been in pain before. I’m not afraid of it.”

  “Sasha, you don’t have to do this,” Bard says, clasping my hand in both of his. “It is the king’s decision, not the Council’s. We can—”

  “No.” I lay my other hand over his. “Bard—Aleksandr—your daughter’s name was Lara. When she was twenty-three years old, an injury ended her career. She went mad. She died—in that world.” My throat closes, and for a moment I can’t speak. Finally, I whisper, “If anything happens to me…find her, if you can. If she’s here.”

  Bard closes his eyes. “I will, Sasha. Never fear.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my moonstone. His fingers shake as he fastens it
around my neck.

  “We are with you, whatever you choose,” he whispers.

  I swallow convulsively and nod, unable to speak.

  Seeing my difficulty, the Apostate announces for me, “She accepts.”

  The king shakes his head. “Let there be no confusion. I must hear it from the lady herself.”

  “I’ll do it.” My voice is ragged. I step forward and try again. “I’ll do it.”

  “No!” Luca steps forward, ignoring his brother’s restraining hand on his arm. “Sasha, don’t—”

  “The choice is hers, brother.” King Miocostin stands and grips Luca’s shoulder. To me, he says, “You are certain you wish to proceed?”

  “I am.” Though my hands shake, my voice holds steady. I look over at Bard’s stricken face. In Russian, I tell him, “Thank you…Dedushka. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you ready?” the king asks, still holding Luca by the shoulders.

  At my nod, the Apostate steps forward. I turn my head and lock eyes with the Premier. The conviction I see there is chilling. Somehow, despite all he’s seen and all he’s heard, he believes he is in the right…and that I will die. But it doesn’t matter. I will survive, and I will show him that he is wrong.

  “Begin,” the king says.

  The Apostate’s hand moves toward me as if pushing through concrete. Enveloped in an eerie silence, I have time to see and study every detail, right down to his dirty, mangled nail beds and the wiry hairs sprouting from his wrists. And then, in a burst of noise and pain, time speeds up and then simply disappears.

  I am nowhere.

  I’m gone.

  Reverence

  I drift through darkness without wondering where I am. It seems completely natural to be without sight. I wonder if I have a body; I touch my hands together. It seems like I do, but how can I really be sure?

  The dark is restful and calm. I feel relief, but I don’t know what I’ve been relieved of. Whatever it was, it must have been exhausting. I must have come from somewhere else. I don’t think I want to go back.

  I don’t realize I’ve been without sound until a faint but familiar melody fills the heavy silence surrounding me. I turn my head, trying to locate its source. It seems to come from everywhere—or nowhere.

  “I will tell you fairy tales

  and sing you little songs

  but now you must slumber,

  with your little eyes closed

  bayushki bayu.”

  I know the words. I know the voice. And once I know that, I know myself again.

  “Babulya!” I yell. “Baba Nadia, where are you?”

  I cast around in the dark until I smack my head on something hard. Reeling backward, I trip over something else. My hand smacks against the wall, and suddenly light flares overhead, blinding me all over again. Somewhere above me, the song continues.

  “There will be a time,

  after you will learn about life,

  When with courage you will

  place your foot into the stirrup.”

  I look around with watering eyes and gasp. I’m in my own kitchen, and the hard thing that attacked me was an open cabinet. I run for the stairs, calling hysterically for my grandmother.

  “I will fear for your troubles

  far away in a foreign land

  Sleep now, as long as you

  don’t know sorrows,

  bayushki bayu.”

  I burst into my bedroom, tripping over my own feet in my hurry, and fall onto the old rug where I used to play with my toys. My grandmother sits in a shabby armchair next to my bed, gazing tenderly at something in the bed as she sings. I look closer and realize that the thing in the bed…is me. A younger me, maybe ten.

  “Baba Nadia?” I hover in the doorway, torn between hope and disbelief.

  “Sasha,” she says, turning to me with a radiant smile. “Oh, Sashka, kotik, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “But…” I put a hand out to touch her knee. “Baba Nadia, am I dead?”

  “No, kitten,” she says. “I’m dead.”

  “But you’re here,” I say. “You’re right here with me.”

  “So I am,” she says, a smile creasing her face. “You have to choose.”

  I back away, shaking my head. I’m not ready.

  “Come here,” she says, beckoning me with a gnarled, spotty hand.

  I move closer, taking her hand and pressing it against my lips. She turns my head so that I’m looking down at my own sleeping face. I touch her—my—cheek and everything around me falls away like a crumbling sandcastle. My mind splinters, trying to take in two—no, three—realities:

  Dark lashes flutter against my younger self’s milky skin; Luca strains against his brother and two of his guards while I lie writhing on the floor, my whole world alight with pain; Emily calls frantically for a nurse, pointing at my suddenly convulsing body. She holds me by the shoulders, tears falling out of her eyes and into mine as I struggle beneath her.

  “Please,” she cries, “Oh God, please…”

  I snatch my hand away and look at my grandmother, aghast. She says nothing. She opens a drawer in the desk beside her and pulls out a rosewood box. My breath hitches as I recognize the deep, rich hue, and I quail at the thought of what’s inside.

  When Baba Nadia lifts the lid, I twitch in surprise. There’s my crown of swans, as I expected, but beside it lies a silver cup. A chalice.

  “You have to choose,” she says gently.

  I close my eyes. I thought I had made my decision. But now, having seen Emily again and felt her tears on my own face…

  “What if I can’t choose?” I whisper. “What if I stay here with you?”

  Baba Nadia shakes her head sadly. “Don’t say that, Sashka. Don’t even think it. It broke my heart to leave you—would you break it again?”

  “Then I should go back,” I say. “I promised Emily—”

  “Emily returned your promise to you,” Baba Nadia says. “You must make the choice for yourself and no one else.”

  “But I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, my voice catching on a sob.

  For the first time since Baba Nadia died, the long months of accumulated tears escape and cascade down my cheeks in a torrent of grief. Overcome, I hide my face in her lap and weep with the helpless abandon of the very young and the utterly desolate.

  Baba Nadia croons meaningless nonsense under her breath and strokes my hair until the fit passes, then wipes my face with an embroidered handkerchief. I press her cool, dry hand against my cheek, screwing up my face against a fresh wave of tears.

  “Don’t,” she chides. “There is no shame in honest grief, nor weakness in tears. You’ve denied yourself that comfort for too long, kotik. It’s time to let go.”

  I shake my head, hard. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “You will stay with me, kotik,” she whispers. “Wherever you go.”

  With a last, brisk pat on my cheek, she tugs the covers up to my younger self’s chin and then leans back in her chair, resuming her lullaby. I stare at the little girl in the bed, envying her blissful ignorance. She doesn’t know how decent people can be led to do and believe indecent things. She doesn’t know the agony of having to choose which loved ones to hurt. She doesn’t know loss or grief or doubt.

  But she also doesn’t know love, not really. What she knows is a child’s love. She doesn’t—can’t—appreciate the true beauty of the thing, having never been without it. She appreciates love no more than she appreciates the air in her lungs or the food in her belly, for she has never drowned and never starved.

  She doesn’t know strength, despite the long hours of exertion some might consider inappropriate, even dangerous, for a child her age. She has a kind of greedy tenacity, a single-minded drive to obtain what she most desires—but she has never been forced into anything against her will. She has never been pushed, kicking and screaming, to the very edge of humanity. She’s never slipped over that edge and then clawed her way back with broken
, bleeding fingernails. She doesn’t know the core of iron in her bones and in her heart.

  But I know these things, and I have broken my chains at last.

  I touch the sleeping Sasha’s cheek. This time, I don’t resist the flood but let it wash over me. I let it drown me.

  It’s about freedom, not love.

  What good is one without the other? My grandmother’s hand finds mine, and I squeeze it with all my strength, heedless of the fragile bones. I thought I would never love anyone as much as I love her. But I know, with every fiber of my being, that I love Luca—and Sadra, Kirit, Bard, and countless thralls I’ve never even met. Thousands of men, women, and children whose chance for their own freedom hangs on my choice: Old promises or new hope? Duty or freedom—to love, to live, to give of myself without reserve? There’s a life, a purpose, waiting for me if only I have the courage to take it.

  Keeping hold of Baba Nadia, I reach out with my other hand, my fingers hovering over the chalice and crown. I scan the planes of Baba Nadia’s face, trying to memorize the soft folds in her cheeks, the curve of her smile. Finally, I look into her eyes.

  “I love you,” I tell her. “Forever.”

  I reach for the Chalice…and drink deep.

  * * *

  “Sasha!” Someone is shouting and shaking me by the shoulders. “Sasha!”

  I roll over and push myself onto my hands and knees. There’s a bitter, coppery taste in my mouth that makes me gag. I spit and then jerk, startled by the sudden splash of red that appears below me. Blood, I realize dimly. I’m bleeding. I swipe a hand over my face and look at the resulting mess. There’s quite a lot of it—the blood. Slowly, I let out a long breath and let my head hang for a moment, doing my best to ignore the quick drip-drip-drip of blood falling onto the pristine white marble.

  “Sasha?” A different voice now, lighter and sharper. “Curse it, Sasha, say something!”

  With effort, I lift my head and squint at the faces before me. It takes several moments for the fuzzy, disjointed images to form a picture. Relief flows through me in a cool flood as I recognize Luca and Sadra. I reach out to touch one face, then the other, leaving bloody smudges on each cheek.