by Dana Swift
“It matches your ceremony garments perfectly,” she gushes.
She’s right. My lehenga is red with golden edging. Swirled and beaded into the fabric are all nine colors of the gods. The dupatta is sheer and catches a rainbow of colors every time I move.
She snags my eyes in the mirror. “It’s okay if you are nervous, but today you won’t worry about how you look.” I smile. It’s moments like this when Zara is most endearing. Even if she is all for love letters, romance, and clothes, she still understands how I might feel the day upon which I must pledge myself to the gods. And I love her for it.
Riya enters as I’m staring myself down, willing the nerves to cease their war within my gut. “Wow. Adraa, you look—”
“I know, right? I did a good job, didn’t I?” Zara gushes, dancing as she retrieves the leftover ribbons and hairpins.
I stall, then turn slowly. “It’s time?”
Riya nods. “Yeah.”
I gulp as I step outside the palace gates. Belwar glows in red. Red banners, red flags, red dye splashed over each threshold. They’re wishing me well, celebrating my forte as the next generation to take up the Belwar mantle. But shouldn’t they have waited until after the ceremony? Failure looms, like the banners overhead. It reminds me of the red room of my dreams. Maybe that’s what my mind was doing as I slept, preparing me for this moment.
“This is where I leave you.” Riya unbuckles her skyglider from her belt. “I’ll see you there.”
“Riya.” I tug at her arm. For the past week we’ve barely talked, but I can’t let it go any longer. “I know you are still mad I lied—”
She scoffs. “You’ve done more than lie. You’ve jeopardized yourself and jeopardized both Belwar’s and Naupure’s futures. If Dad—” She chokes. “If my dad knew about this he would be ashamed. He would have stopped you.”
“Is that why you’re so upset? You think you failed to protect me and he would have?” She won’t look me in the eye. I hook my hands around her shoulders. “Riya, I became the Red Woman not for some thrill. I did it because…because when I was eight and scared beyond measure about being Untouched, your dad pulled me aside and said a true rani doesn’t have to have magic or a God’s blessing.” Tears well in my eyes. “A true rani just helps the people.”
Riya finally looks at me. “My father had a lot of sayings. He wasn’t always right.” She pulls away and reaches for her skyglider. “And you are not an Untouched, you are one of the most powerful witches I know. Good luck today, but I don’t think you need it. You are not eight years old anymore.” In a burst of air and dirt she’s gone.
I wipe my face as the dust settles. I won’t regret my decisions because they put me in danger. It is my firelight. I’m responsible for how people use it. In time, Riya will see.
It’s tradition for a royal to make the journey on foot and alone for one’s ceremony. Then my family and friends will walk back with me to the palace, following behind to show they believe in my leadership. But for now I’m alone. And while the temple lies next to the palace, I have to take the long way, through the city, through the red-bannered street. I’ve never seen Belwar empty like this before. It’s ghostly.
This is it. This is the moment when I’m supposed to be mature, sophisticated, powerful. An adult. It’s never felt so untrue. All of this is just dress-up. Am I the only one who feels like a fraud? Or have other royals walked this path and doubted? Doubted everything?
It seems like days before I arrive at the base of the small hill and begin climbing to the top. The sun burns into me as if it’s focusing a spotlight. I might spontaneously combust as bile bubbles up my throat.
The temple rises into view. Gods, the entire palace has come out for this. I’ve been here hundreds of times. This isn’t any different. My feet drag my lehenga in the hot, dry grass. Who am I kidding? This is completely different. Breathe. Just breathe.
I spot Jatin in the crowd. His eyes widen as he gazes at me. He smiles. I try to smile back, but it crumbles. My parents stand closest to the temple steps. I walk up to them.
“You don’t need to be nervous. You are going to be fine,” my father assures me.
I just nod. I don’t know what to say anyway. Nerves gnaw at the words.
He touches my chin. “Bright dawn, Adraa. Bright dawn.”
This time I smile. I’m the only one freaking out here. My parents are trying to reassure me, and no one else looks scared. The dreams flare to life in my memory, but I push them back down. They’re not an omen, but a blessing. This is my day, my dawn, and my destiny.
Yet, why does it still feel like a lie? Stop! Stop overthinking this. Do this, prove yourself and you get everything you want. Your title, Jatin, happiness…
I approach the temple, climb the three simple stairs and find myself in the center, surrounded by the nine columns of the gods. It’s never felt so empty.
“By the blood of my blood I offer myself to be tested by the gods!” I yell.
Nothing stirs, not even the wind. Maybe the gods aren’t listening. I continue anyway. “I vow to protect all those touched with your blessing.” These last words feel weird coming from my lips. This speech is an ancient one, when the Untouched were thrown away by society. But nowadays? Helping the Untouched is important for Belwar’s future and I don’t exactly care for everyone powerful and Touched.
I try to clear my head. “Allow me to serve through you. Allow me to offer my blood if I don’t prove fit.” A shiver runs through me. I hate that line.
From the first pillar on my right, a wave of heat crashes over me. Red magic.
It has begun.
It’s nice to watch the ceremony instead of performing it. Waves of fire roll off the first pillar and crash into Adraa. But she’s ready. Her arm glows bloodred and she swivels around the flame, elbows and wrists bent. It’s a push-and-pull movement, a dance.
Today, wizards and witches are overly lazy, using only speech to call forth their Touch. But in the original times, casting was full body. I too performed in this way for the gods a year ago, and watching Adraa move reawakens the old traditions I’ve learned. Reminds me how much I inherently move my arms when casting.
Next comes a mountain of orange mist that collapses upon her. She yells spell after spell as she is forced to bear the weight of Renni’s trials.
“She is doing well,” Maharaja Belwar whispers to his wife. He squeezes her arm. “Trust her.”
He’s right. Adraa is doing well. She sweeps the yellow magic around her, turning and moving like the wind. Then her steps harden as a green smoke rises from the bottom of Htrae’s pillar, the magic weaving and climbing like vines. Red unfurls from Adraa’s hands and sways with the branches, untangling them. For this spell she doesn’t shout, mirroring Goddess Htrae’s more peaceful trial.
Retaw: Adraa moves with the gushing blue wave trying to capsize her.
Raw: Hundreds of purple arrows materialize from the next pillar and Adraa redirects them back into the stone from which they came. Quick. Precise. Perfect.
The sun beats down on us. It’s already been more than an hour. She’s so close now.
“Laeh is next. We have nothing to worry about here,” Maharani Belwar says.
She’s right. Pink happens so fast I don’t fully catch it. One moment pink smoke encases Adraa and in the next it’s gone. Finished. Pride inflates my chest. That’s my Smoke.
“You’ve taught her well,” Father tells Maharani Belwar.
Black magic quickly swallows the scene, slithering from its pillar in shadow form. Adraa moves low and fluidly, weaving the God’s test with her own shadow. She turns into darkness and for minutes I can’t see her dance. My heart spikes. Her parents don’t seem concerned, though. In a flash she’s back and the temple lightens.
“Well done. Nearly there!”
Only white left. Yet nothing happens. We al
l watch the pillar, awaiting the final test, but there’s nothing. Whispers start to seize the crowd. Adraa turns around, and for the first time in hours, our eyes lock. And in her eyes, I see terror.
In a violent burst, white magic surges out of the pillar.
“Adraa!” I yell, but it’s too late. She moves to perform the first step of a spell, but then she’s knocked off her feet.
Maharani Belwar gasps beside me.
A spell readies on my lips. My father, sensing my body language, clutches my arm. “It would hurt her,” he says.
Even knocked down, with a white fury building up against her, Adraa fights back. She stands, stamps one foot, and begins dancing. And yet it looks wrong. Her body wobbles in the casting. There’s too much white magic. Surely Dloc never cast this much magic against me in my trials. A roar of wind rips through the temple. Many people retreat in fear.
“We have to do something!” I yell.
My father shakes his head. “She must work through it herself. If we intervene, she will fail.”
My entire body clenches, all muscles engaged and yet motionless. I can’t do anything. I’m useless.
Adraa is a blaze of color within a torrent of snow and wind. It’s like when I first saw her all those weeks ago, lying on the ground in front of my carriage amid a sea of chaos. But back then, she raised her hand to notify everyone she and the boy were safe. Now, there’s no reassurance, no sign, only the flash of red in the middle of vast whiteness.
“What’s happening?” someone yells as we lose sight of her completely.
This is wrong. I have to do something. I step forward, feeling the icy breath of Dloc down to my bones. “Adraa?”
A flash of red fire hits the temple ceiling and the stone cracks. Ice swallows the opening and the rock splinters. Someone screams and the Belwar servants scramble backward.
“Oh Gods,” I think my father says.
Maharaja Belwar and I catch each other’s eyes, and without a word, we run forward. But as soon as I step into the freezing white mist, it disappears. A loud slurping sound echoes, and with a whoosh the white magic flies back into Dloc’s pillar. Have I just ruined everything?
I spot Adraa a few meters away, the rainbow ribbons in her hair mangled and sliding down her back. The next moment is quiet. No one dares speak. She did it! She must have. Relief swells inside of me. We were worried over nothing. She’s passed their trials.
“Adraa?” I call.
Why won’t she turn around?
Another breathless second ticks by. Something’s wrong. Dread swarms my throat and with a swallow it spreads throughout me. Why won’t she turn around? Why won’t she move? But she is moving, her body vibrating, shaking uncontrollably.
Before anyone takes another step, Adraa tumbles to the ground as if her strings have been cut. It’s a death fall. Riya shrieks and Maharani Belwar screams bloody murder.
My body numbs. I don’t know I’m running until I skid to a stop and fall next to her, the first by her side. With trembling fingers I touch her shoulders and gently pull her onto her back. “No, no, nooo. Please, no.” I lift her lifeless form into my lap and fumble at her throat to find a pulse.
The Belwars collapse on the ground next to me. My father stands above us with liquid eyes and one hand to his mouth.
“Give her to me,” a quavering female voice demands.
Hope punches me in the gut. Maharani Belwar, the best pink forte in all of Wickery. She can bring Adraa back. She can save her.
“What can I do, Ira?” Maharaja Belwar rolls up his sleeves.
Maharani Belwar doesn’t even glance at us. “Laeh!” she cries out, thrusting her hands onto Adraa’s chest. Adraa jolts upward, but nothing else happens. Her head lolls to the side in a deathlike swivel.
Gods, no. No!
“Stay with me, baby. Laeh.” She shoots again. The pink magic dissolves into Adraa, raises her body in a jerk, and…And nothing happens.
Maharani Belwar turns to Maharaja Belwar and sputters, “Vivaan, she’s not responding. In the clinic, in the clinic there—”
In one fluid motion, Maharaja Belwar scoops Adraa up in his arms. And in a flash of orange he’s gone, with Maharani Belwar right after.
I stumble to pick myself up. My father and what’s left of the other ceremony viewers sit on the steps, stunned. Adraa’s sister is frozen. Riya, however, is already dashing toward the clinic.
“Tvarenni!” I shout, and shoot after her.
When Riya halts before a doorway I lurch to a stop and gape at the scene before me. Adraa is on the medical table, where a week ago we stood together helping patients. Everything has changed. The floor, covered with blood and broken bottles, makes me want to vomit. I’m thrust back to a time in which I stood at the threshold of my mother’s room, watching horrified as screams shot from her ragged throat. Now it’s just the yell of spells and a blaze of orange and pink smoke wafting over the body of the girl I love. Blood drips to the floor in a maddeningly consistent patter.
There was no wound. Adraa wasn’t bleeding for the few seconds I held her.
“It’s not hers,” a voice murmurs.
What’s happened? There was no wound before!
“Jatin!” Riya shakes me. “It’s not hers.”
Peering at the floor again, I get it. Bottles, potions, blood, it was all pushed off the table for Adraa.
As I step forward to do something, anything, Maharaja Belwar twists around and slams the door closed with a flick of yellow magic. I think I hear a soft apology, but the slam masks any other noise. I’m cut off from her. I’m useless.
Riya slumps against the opposite wall, tears shimmering on her cheeks. “She still thought I was mad at her. That’s the last thing she’ll ever—”
“No!” I shout. “No!”
“Will you wait with me?” she whispers through sobs.
“I’m never leaving her.”
* * *
Within minutes, Prisha, Kalyan, my father, and several servants find their way to our hallway of torture, where time eats at us until it devours something vital. A servant girl falls into Riya’s arms, which renews Riya’s tears. Hiren, that guard from the rooftop who wanted to arrest me, holds Prisha close. Kalyan sits next to me, silent and strong. My father paces, wanting into the room as much as I do, I’m sure.
My brain cycles through all my memories of Adraa and tries to hold on to every detail. Of course, I fail. I fail over and over again until even in my memories I can feel her slipping away.
When the door finally unlatches, it’s Maharaja Belwar.
“She has a pulse. Ira is still at it, but even if she were to wake up…There’s not much hope,” he says, with tears sliding down his face.
I turn and pound my fist against the nearest wall.
This is my fault. Adraa recognized the danger when no one else did. What royal has ever died during their ceremony? It’s been a century, maybe even centuries, plural. But she knew and I pushed her here, to perform for the gods and they beat her. No, they killed her.
“Son?”
I whack my father’s hands off me and run. I make it to the training yard before I collapse to the ground. Frostlight blossoms flutter at my crash and then lie still. I crush a few in my hands. Curse the color white. To blood with it all!
“Damn you! Damn all of you. I loved her, you bloody bastards. I loved her!” I scream into the air. I don’t know I even said the spell, but a freezing blast of ice shoots up into the sky and my arms go numb from the cold that bursts from my body. My whole body is numb, besides my chest, which grates like I’m being shredded by a hot iron. A surge of pure white magic keeps shooting out of my hands. It feels like hours of me exploding, hurling my magic into the sky and hoping the gods die along with me. Then I slump to the ground and sob.
My father finds me a whil
e later. Without saying a word he collapses to the ground as well. Before I can process anything, he lurches forward and clutches me in a hug.
I have experience with loss. I know the pain, the torture, the ache. But when my mother died I was only four, too young for grief to rip through me in the same way. As I grew up, her death slowly sank its claws into me.
But this. This is branding. My world is crumbling before my eyes and I can’t do anything to stop it.
Gods, this is what my father dealt with, has dealt with for years. One look into his eyes and I can tell the pain is ripping him open anew. I have only one other memory of him crying.
I take a shuddering breath. I don’t know if I can live through today, let alone the hollow moments that will fill the rest of my life. I will never talk with her again. Never touch her. Never put pen to paper knowing she will read my words.
Bang! The ground roars. This is because of me. I created a storm from all the white magic I smashed into the clouds. Or worse, the gods are responding to my rampage and they have decided to yell back, to shake all of Wickery in answer.
Bang! Bang! again. Explosions and the sound of thunder pound the air.
I search the sky for the source of the noise and find it instantly. A dark-gray cloud spews from the mountains to the west, toward Naupure.
The earth shakes and my father and I shake with it.
Bang!
I stand to get a clearer view of the clouds and where they’re coming from. No, this isn’t because of me at all. It’s Mount Gandhak. Mount Gandhak is erupting.
“Come on, Jatin,” my father orders. We run back inside, down the hallway. The group huddling around the medical room peers toward us for answers. More people have gathered, including an older female guard who stands next to Riya and wears the sun crest of Belwar.
“What is it?” Riya and Kalyan both ask, and then glance at each other.
“Mount Gandhak is erupting,” I say as my father barrels into the medical room. I follow close behind. The blood and herbs on the floor perfume the air with an iron tang. At first, I can’t look at Adraa, but when I do, my eyes stick. She looks peaceful. Her hair lays like a spiderweb, loose, tangled, and ribbonless. I choke back a sob.