Dreams of the Fae: Transcendence

by Anna Patrick Paige

  “How? How could I leave? I’m marked. If I step one foot outside this palace, I will be recognized by the Mandala.”

  Ambrosia pulled me to my feet, holding my arms as my legs wobbled. “Jonathan spoke of the texts on the Mandala and its function being lost to history. It’s true. The documents were removed by the Senate, and I am to blame. The act of removing your own Mandala was forbidden unless in a life-or-death situation, and yet I abused the privilege so I could roam free. It’s shameful to want to be anything but Divine, and many royals believed we should never hide who we truly are—that it disgraces us to remove the mark.” Her fingers grazed the glowing pattern on her temple. “This is supposed to be an honor.” She shook her head. “When I was found out, my brother petitioned the Senate. He feared it would become public knowledge. The Senate agreed: the people need not know the Divine can willingly remove their mark. Since then it has been taboo to teach the new generation of Divine that if we so will it, we can look just like everyone else. Your father has no idea such a thing is possible. Nor your mother, nor Luken, nor the Divine of Podar or Duval. King O’dern was young when the Senate wrote the new law. He and I remain the only living Divine who know the truth. The Senate master believes the knowledge will die with us.”

  I blinked furiously, trying to comprehend her words. “I’ve read every book in the palace. Nothing ever mentioned or even hinted—”

  “Erased from Atheran record. Only the Senate master holds the exact instructions on how to remove it. As Jonathan believes, the documents are not truly lost.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I turned away from her. It was easier to conclude Ambrosia’s age was warping her mind than accept that an escape was within reach.

  “Let me show you. Close your eyes,” she urged.

  I hesitated, then shut my eyes.

  “What do people see when they look at you? The details of who you are to the world are never the same as what you perceive yourself. How do others know you? Find that woman inside your head.”

  I knew the image well: The Divine Princess of Alamantia looked into the mirror of her vanity, adorned in jewels and silk, a crown resting atop her head. Almond curls covered her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Sad pewter eyes stared blankly into the nothing of her own existence. The Mandala curved around her temple and flowed down her neck, glowing with a soft silver sparkle.

  Oh, how she pained me.

  “Somewhere rooted deep inside of you is the person you want to be. She is foreign to you—someone you have never known but desperately want. Who is she? Envision yourself without the Mandala. Who have you become?”

  I attempted to follow her instruction, but the vision was difficult to imagine. Each time the Mandala disappeared, it reemerged.

  “Fight against it,” she commanded. “The Mandala wants to be seen. The Divine part of you will not be forgotten easily.”

  The image shook, rattling the edges of my brain. The mirror trembled in its frame, and the once vibrant silks and jewels lost their color, flashing from black to white and back again. Somewhere amid the fit of my mind, a new person began to take over my consciousness. She wore Ambrosia’s woolen dress. Her hands were dirty, but in her eyes was a contentment I had never felt.

  “It’s not enough to envision yourself without the mark. You have to want to be rid of it. You have to know, with certainty, that you are more than the Divinity that defines you.”

  The vision steadied. The Mandala faded, the skin closing over it as it would over a wound. This new girl touched the side of her face, brushing her fingers across where the Mandala should have been, only to find smooth skin.

  My eyes shot open and I stumbled backwards. Ambrosia caught me by the nightgown.

  “It takes practice, but you seem to be a natural. You must sincerely detest being born Divine.”

  She dragged me to the mirror, my feet jumbling across the floor, and tossed me at the vanity. A peculiar feeling tinged with nausea swirled in my core, and I gripped the table to hold myself upright. A warm trickle ran down the side of my face and dripped over my neck.

  My reflection came into focus, and I screamed. Ambrosia instantly flung her hand over my mouth, but I shook free and leaned close to the mirror. The Mandala was gone—gone!—replaced by a thin coating of blood. I moved my hair away from my face and smeared the red, trying to find the mark, but nothing was visible, not even a wound to reveal where the blood had originated.

  “It bleeds,” I murmured, aghast.

  “The first time, yes.” Ambrosia took a cloth from the vanity and wiped my skin clean. She tried several times to turn my head to her, but I was too transfixed by my reflection. By a version of myself I had never seen.

  “It went away . . .” I continued, amazed. “How can it go away?”

  The slightest grin upturned her lips. “I’ve always believed we were never meant to be birds in a cage but rather to live like everyone else, as a precious Atheran secret.”

  I pushed the skin on my neck, still trying to force evidence of the mark. “Do you think Prince Marcus learned about this in his research at Medial Alexandria?”

  “It’s possible, but seeing as the Senate enforces Atheran law, it’s doubtful they would have allowed him near the correct information.”

  I leaned even closer to the mirror and smiled gleefully. I was normal, and it was exceedingly amazing. Who cared if it was illegal? I threw myself at Ambrosia, wrapping my arms around her in the tightest embrace I could manage.

  She hastily pushed me off and plucked the wool dress from the floor. “Do you have an older chemise? One that might be too small or too worn?”

  Before I could answer, she disappeared into the closet and reemerged with a cotton chemise I hadn’t seen in years. The thin fabric had been a gift from Duval, but the cotton was too sheer to be of much use in the Brisleian cold. The majority had been made into aprons for my maids, and the remainder had become an unimpressive chemise, lacking lace or high-quality threading.

  “This will do.” Ambrosia lifted my nightgown over my head, leaving me half-freezing in the middle of the room, naked except for Luken’s dagger attached to my ankle. She quickly fed my arms into the cotton sleeves and pulled the soft chemise over my body.

  Next, she unlaced the leather cords from her wool abomination and helped me into the dress. The wool itched even through the cotton barrier, but the fit was exceptional. She carefully did up the front of the bodice, tying a small bow just above my breasts, then removed two more items from the parcel wrappings. The first was a set of worn brown leather boots that laced up the sides with more leather cording; the second, a hooded walnut-colored wool cloak, which she threw over my shoulders and tied around my neck.

  I removed Luken’s dagger to slide into the unimpressive shoes.

  Ambrosia snatched the weapon. “How in all of Athera did you get this?”

  “A birthday gift from Luken.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Young lady, under normal circumstances I would take this from you immediately. What was he thinking?”

  Protection from Prince Marcus.

  She glared at the blade. “But these are not normal circumstances,” she murmured to herself, then refastened the gift over my boot. “At least now we won’t have to steal one from the armory on our way out.”

  The clock tower tolled four.

  “We need to go,” she insisted.

  “I have to tell Elizabetta.” I ran for the chamber doors.

  “No, Ayleth!” She caught my elbow, and I skidded on my heels. “You can tell no one.”

  “But . . . I must,” I stammered. “After everything she has done for me, I can’t leave without telling her goodbye.”

  “We cannot risk Elizabetta knowing you have gone. It will make you vulnerable.”

  “She’ll be crushed,” I pleaded, trying to tug free, but Ambrosia’s grip held firm.

  “You can trust no one. I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”

  My heart sank and
I stopped struggling.

  “Follow me.”

  Into the dark passage we crept. I had to feel my way down the ebony cobblestone until my eyes adjusted. Despite the thick layer of decomposing hay and dirt deadening the noise of our footfalls, we proceeded with cautious steps and didn’t speak a word; sound would carry easily to anyone standing on the other side of the stone.

  The narrow path was only wide enough for one person to fit through at a time, and Ambrosia led the way, taking turn after turn as we descended into the belly of the palace. I had never been this deep. Strange vines grew up the walls, and the air smelled stale and moldy. Cobwebs lined the tunnel’s ceiling, and water dripped down the stone, making the floor slick.

  The walk went on for an eternity, then finally stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. Ambrosia pushed hard on the stone, and the wall gave way with a creak of hinges and the sound of stone raking against stone.

  A layer of dirt skittered down from the ceiling as Ambrosia ushered me through the newly revealed opening, and I found myself in a place I didn’t expect: the Divine tombs. Carved into the mountain rock deep under the palace, the interior remained coarse and unfinished. Old torches had left black soot on the walls, and dripping water echoed through the vast, otherwise eerily silent space.

  Every Brisleian royal who bore a Mandala was laid to rest in this underground chamber. People feared the Divine would be subject to grave robbery, and so they were never buried where the public had access to their bodies. Instead, they were stored. A Divine royal had not died in my lifetime, so I had never seen the tombs. I could imagine the room glowing orange with the torches blazing—the cobwebs cleaned and flowers placed. Now, all that remained of past mournful occasions were wet lanterns and remnants of floral ornamentation, long since scattered by vermin and left to decay.

  I looked over the stone caskets. I could only see the ones directly in front of me, but there would be hundreds spread throughout the dark, each carved lid depicting the regal image of the Divine lying just beneath it. After a lifetime of splendor, we all ended up in the same place to rot.

  “We have to keep moving.” Ambrosia took my hand. We crossed the tomb and once again came to a seeming dead end. She leaned into the wall, but the new door stopped before opening completely. “It’s jammed.”

  Thick roots dangled just inside the doorway. I pulled Luken’s dagger from my ankle.

  “Quickly,” Ambrosia pleaded.

  One at a time I sawed through the roots blocking our path. Again she pushed hard on the stone, and the remaining tendrils snapped. The door swung open, slamming against the wall with a loud, echoing boom. We both froze and waited out the reverberations—waited to hear someone, waited to be caught.

  A lifetime later, the noise subsided, and we found ourselves still alone.

  Ambrosia grabbed my arm and shoved me into the corridor, closing the door behind us. The white light of the moon shone through a grate in the ceiling that led up to the streets of Alamantia City.

  She stared longingly at the splintered moonlight. “This is the path I used to escape. When I was discovered, I told them I’d been leaving in countryman caravans after they had delivered goods to the palace. If I had not lied, the way would have been sealed.”

  Freedom existed on the other side of the bars above my head. The moon seemed bigger and more brilliant than ever before.

  Ambrosia touched my chin, turning my face to look at her. “You must leave the memories of the Rose Court behind you. If you are to survive, you must forget the name Ayleth. Never reveal, never hint, never tell anyone who you are or where you came from, or you shall be at their mercy. Do not put yourself in a precarious position. Stay close to the roads and avoid the deep woods, as the most heinous of men make their homes there. There are dangers that not even I can prepare you for. The world outside these walls is a vastly different place.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Return when you are ready.” She stroked my hair. “Always remember, the Mandala can be brought back effortlessly by closing your eyes and reimagining yourself bearing the mark. Be mindful of your thoughts, or it may appear without warning. The Mandala wants to show itself, and it will fight to be a present part of you.”

  I nodded, and my loving grandmother released me. She stepped onto a square stone placed under the grate and slid the metal bars to the side. Easing me onto the stone beside her, she helped me jump up to grip the edge. My arms were weak. All the days spent reading books on feathered pillows were apparent in my soft muscles. I took a deep breath and let out a groan, using every ounce of strength I had to pull myself up to the dank streets. At last I rolled onto the ground, collecting the road’s filth all over my dress.

  Ambrosia reached through the opening, and I crawled on my belly to grasp her hand one last time.

  “I love you, Ayleth,” she mouthed, touching my cheek. She grasped Prince Marcus’s diamond engagement ring and removed it from my finger. A weight lifted. I could breathe again.

  Her hand disappeared into the blackness, and the grate slid back into place.

  “Grandmother, wait!” I exclaimed. “What will happen when the King finds out I’m missing?” There was no answer. “Ambrosia?”

  I was alone.

  I lay panting over the slimy grate, my dress quickly growing damp in the muddy city streets. Immediate panic overthrew my senses.

  What was Ambrosia thinking? I knew nothing of life outside the palace. I glared through the bars trying to find her, but she had disappeared. I might never see her again. If I died out here . . .

  How could she do this to me?

  This was senseless. A decision made on a whim. I was no readier to commit to leaving than I was ready for marriage. I had given up my status, riches, luxurious comforts and glamour for woolen rags.

  Fear pulsed through my veins like lightning strikes to the muscle. Alone, lying paralyzed on the filthy cobblestone, I considered pulling at the grate and falling back into the corridor. The urge to run to the safety of my room and ease the panic screamed at my feet.

  Luken and Elizabetta would never forgive me for abandoning them.

  But I couldn’t go back. Not if it meant a life with Prince Marcus, lost in the Caldera smoke.

  I had to forget. Forever. My Divine life must fade into history, just as the Mandala had vanished into my flesh. But could I really ask that of myself? A part of me would always belong to Brisleia. Hidden or visible, the mark remained beneath my skin, carved into bone.

  I tried to remember how to move. My ankles wobbled when I found my footing.

  The alley was far darker than I’d anticipated from inside the passage, where the moon had illuminated my escape. To the left, it opened onto a wider street in the noble district. The faint glow of lanterns hanging on ornate metal posts along the thoroughfare beckoned me forwards.

  The sun had not yet risen, and I needed to move quickly. Dawn would fill the streets with lords and ladies visiting the palace. I lifted the hood of my cloak over my head and pulled the fabric down to cover my eyes. With the Mandala hidden, the general population wouldn’t know my face—I wasn’t a future monarch or traveling heir visiting her provinces—but I refused to risk being recognized. Besides, the disappearance of the Mandala still felt unreal, impossible. How was I supposed to forget something that had been part of me since birth?

  I scurried through the narrow streets, attempting to navigate the maze of lace-curtained windows and gleaming brass knockers. Every opulent stone building looked the same. I tried to remember the city from above. I had spent a lifetime looking down, but now it was endless confusion.

  I hardened my ankles and kept walking, creeping around corners like a criminal. The riches of the noble district grew sparse as the early morning sky lightened to indigo.

  When I crossed into the poor district, the atmosphere changed. The cobblestone streets gradually flattened to packed dirt and mud, and the smell of excre
ment and horse feed hung heavy in the air, with the faintest hint of bread baking in the distance.

  After passing row upon row of wood-thatched buildings with clouded glass windows, I reached the market square in the center of the city. The abundant stalls were all empty, due to the early hour, but clumps of dirty, impoverished citizens lingered in the soon-to-be-active emporium. Most sat in dim corners or by the giant oak tree in the center of the square.

  The horizon began to glow pink. I could no longer lurk in the shadows if I intended to reach the gates before daybreak. I gripped my hood, the harsh wool rubbing against the skin of my neck. In Ambrosia’s dress, I looked as destitute as the rest of these displaced citizens.

  I quickened my pace, wary of the darkened eyes glancing at me as I passed. I expected one to follow, but none did. Some even turned away to ignore my shadow rushing through the remnants of night. Relief washed over me when I once again found a secluded alley.

  The clock tower struck six. The window of time before daylight narrowed.

  Alamantia City extended out from the mountainside in a giant wedge, widening towards the city gates. If I could find one of the two walls leading away from the palace, it would direct me to the outskirts of the city, and I could escape the endless maze.

  I hurried past wagons of hay and rats drinking from muddy puddles. I passed emaciated stray dogs eating rubbish in crumbling buildings and the vague outline of street cats moving in the gloom.

  As the climbing sun sharpened the morning shadows, the vast wall protecting Alamantia finally appeared before me. The palace towered to my right, so I snapped left and traveled through the steadily brightening streets. Simple servants emerged from all directions, and I tucked my head into my cloak. Mandala or not, palace servants knew a Divine royal when they saw one.

  Minutes felt like hours. Each step took an eternity. The smell of unappetizing breakfasts filled my nose, and I narrowly avoided an avalanche of excrement from a piss-pot being emptied out of a window. The sun seemed to laugh at me as the clock ticked away the morning, each second counting down the last moments I would spend in Alamantia.