The Savior's Sister

by Jenna Moreci

  Leila nearly scoffed aloud, but She kept Her mouth shut.

  “Almost done, child.” Cecily’s face flushed. “I suppose I should stop calling You that. You’re a grown woman now. But You’ll always be small to me. I can’t help it.”

  A sliver of warmth crept through Leila, thawing Her. “I don’t mind.”

  Cecily circled a table stacked with crowns, some intricately beaded, others made of gold-plated flowers, stopping in front of a crown of sharp, golden spikes—Leila’s favorite. Prompted by Leila’s nod, she placed the crown on Her head.

  “Look at You.” She steered Leila toward a mirror. “What do You think?”

  A flowing red dress draped Her like a river of blood, pulled across one shoulder and cinched at Her waist. Topaz and rubies hung from Her throat, with rows of matching bands and bracelets stacked on Her arms and wrists. But the crown stole Her focus, sharp and severe: “The rays of the sun,” Her servants would say, though Leila saw blades. For once, an authentic smile graced Her lips.

  “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “You make my work easy,” Cecily cooed.

  Leila took one last look at Her reflection—the vision of a queen. Then, perhaps for the thousandth time, the tournament floated through her thoughts.

  The vision of a queen, with none of the control.

  She left the dressing room, attempting to still Her mind. The royal parlor appeared, its walls covered in burgundy tapestries, the furnishings ornate and bejeweled.

  Pippa spun toward Her in a swirl of fine yellow linen, her usually disheveled hair tied up in a bun. “You look like a princess!”

  “Like a queen.” Cosima, wearing a layered dress the color of rose wine, pulled Her into an embrace. “Look at You! You take my breath away.”

  Memories of Cosima’s naked flesh pressed to Asher filled Leila’s mind, and She squirmed out of her grasp. Delphi stood at Her side, a beauty in mint green and lapis, but Leila was more interested in the two chalices of wine she carried. “When’s our entrance?” She snatched up a chalice. “I want to get this over with.”

  “Brontes was just seated.” Delphi raised an eyebrow. “I see You switched the order. Feeling mischievous, are we?”

  Wembleton tromped into the parlor, wearing a rich gold tunic and too many colorful drapes. Leila took a generous gulp of wine, hoping to blur the sight of him.

  “Your Holiness, congratulations to You on this special occasion. Your celebration awaits.” Wembleton waited for Leila to respond, and when She didn’t, he turned to Her sisters. “Ladies, are we ready?”

  The court lined up in front of a set of golden doors—the entrance to the atrium. As the doors opened, Wembleton waddled out, his arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming The Savior’s court.”

  One by one, Leila’s sisters waltzed away, and a weight dropped in Her gut. She hated this part.

  “And now, please stand in attention for Her Holiness, our One True Savior.”

  The screeching of chairs sliding along the polished floor sent Leila rigid. After downing the last of Her wine, She headed through the doorway.

  The atrium was lavish on a normal day, but on Her birthday, it was a sight to behold. The ceiling overflowed with splendor, with red and purple ribbons spiraling downward and golden stars dangling from string. Garlands of lilies wrapped the marble columns; shining gold place settings spotted the infinitely long dining table, spilling with food and drink; and rows of beautifully dressed people—Her palace staff in their finest garb—stood in silence, watching Her. Waiting.

  She stopped at Her seat at the head of the table, a crimson throne boasting rays, gold as the sun. Her sisters waited by their seats alongside Her, their heads bowed in reverence, and the sight of it stung. She had always despised events like these—grand feasts, festivities for The One True Savior. They served as a reminder that She stood on a pedestal above all others, and She stood on that pedestal alone.

  Taking Her seat, She nodded for the others to do the same. Only Wembleton remained standing, his chalice in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we celebrate Her Holiness on this, Her coming of age. Let us pay tribute to Her glory, for it is Her light that unites us, that fills our bellies and gives us shelter, that keeps our great realm whole and pure.” He turned Her way. “This feast is not a gift from us to You. No, it is a gift from You to all of us. And for that, we thank You. Truly. Humbly.”

  Leila dug Her nails into the table, sickened by the stale stench of his lies.

  “For all that You are and all that You do, we devote our lives to Your service.” Wembleton raised his chalice high. “Blessed be The Savior!”

  “Blessed be The Savior,” the others said in unison. Leila barely lifted Her chalice before taking a swig, longing to saturate Her insides. Music wafted through the space, and the people dug into the feast, laughing and indulging in the opulence. It seemed everyone was content with the night ahead. Except Leila.

  And Her father.

  He sat at the opposite end of the table, a crown of gold-plated leaves on his head, layers of maroon drapes adorning his bare chest. Perhaps he looked handsome, but it was hard to see past his hideous glower.

  The spread of food thinned, the faces around Her reddening with inebriation. Hylas entered the atrium, a scroll and reed in hand. He cleared his throat, again, then once more until the room finally fell silent. “Presenting the gifts to Leila Tūs Salvatíraas, Her Holiness, our One True Savior, on this, Her coming of age.”

  Guards in silver chest plates marched into the atrium carrying armfuls of goods—black garnets from the realm of Ethyua, peach trees from the farmers’ union—and with each lot Leila recited Her gratitude. “Tell the Monarch of Ethyua I’m in awe of his jewels. Extend to him My deepest thanks. Tell the farmers I’m delighted. Peaches are My favorite.” All the while She stared at Her father, who stared at Her all the same, and Her rage burned deeper, charring Her insides.

  “From Her sister, Delphinium Tūs Salvatíraas of The Savior’s court,” Hylas announced. “‘The Warrior’s Chant,’ a poem by Karti, delivered in its original form.”

  Leila spun away from Her father, gaping at the scroll delivered to Her hands. “Delphi!” She gasped, unrolling the aged parchment. “Oh My God, this is My—”

  “Favorite. I know,” Delphi said.

  “Look—he misspelled sanguinary.”

  “Poor bastard, bet he never heard the end of that.”

  As Leila scanned the faded ink, Delphi hovered over Her shoulder. “The ending’s my favorite. ‘Lo, he set his foes aflame, turned their flesh to rot and ash, and ne’er was he questioned. Cross a warrior, and be burned.’”

  Glancing sidelong at Brontes, Leila gave Her sister a squeeze. “Thank you so much.”

  Delphi whispered into Her ear, “May all who cross You burn.”

  “From Her sister, Cosima Tūs Salvatíraas of The Savior’s court,” Hylas said. “A piece formed by the elite glassworkers of Trogolia.”

  Guards plucked the scroll from Leila’s hands, replacing it with a palm-sized ornament.

  “I saw it and instantly thought of You,” Cosima said. “I know how much you adore Your garden.”

  Leila rotated the piece in Her hands—a crystal rose, its clear petals reflecting all the colors of the rainbow. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  “Not nearly as beautiful as You.” Cosima snatched the rose away, taking Leila’s hands. “Precious dove, I’d do anything for You. You know that, yes?”

  I’d do anything for You. But Cosima and Asher were still naked in Leila’s mind, and her words lost all meaning, fading away like the flush of her pale skin.

  Pale skin. Leila froze, studying Her sister—painted lips, shiny red waves, and milky flesh that could rival Her own. Leila was fairer in comparison, but the shade was similar, passable as the same to the untrained eye. Eyes. Cosima’s apple-green irises weren’t particularly unusual, but they were striking, and perhaps that was all that mattered.


  “Are You all right?” Cosima asked.

  Leila shook Herself. “Apologies. Too much wine.”

  Chuckling, Cosima flagged a servant, having Leila’s chalice promptly refilled. “No such thing.”

  Pippa’s gift was next to arrive—a circlet of jeweled violets. No doubt Cecily had assisted. Leila gave Her sister a firm hug, though Her mind remained on Cosima.

  Pale skin. Striking eyes.

  “From beyond the fortress,” Hylas said, “a gift from Petros Elia, the principal artist of Thessen. An original painting to add to Your collection.”

  Leila’s back shot straight. She rose from Her seat as two guards marched into the atrium, a large, framed canvas held between them.

  The room fell silent. Leila inspected the painting up close, extending Her hand to touch it but stopping short. She couldn’t, no, that felt wrong. Instead Her eyes danced over the piece: a vibrant sky spotted with soft clouds, tall green trees, thatched cottages. In its center stood a woman with icy eyes, strawberry blonde locks, and light pouring from Her body—a woman Leila knew well, if only by Her reflection.

  “What is it called?”

  Hylas read over his scroll. “Mother.”

  A pang shot through Her. Flowers with long white petals and spots of pink were painted at Her mother’s feet, and Leila smiled at the sight. “Lilies.”

  “It says here they were Your mother’s—”

  “Favorite. Yes, they were.” Her eyes didn’t leave the canvas, taking in the sea of brilliant hues. She rarely saw these colors in people. Only in paintings.

  “For Your gratitude?” Hylas said.

  A painting by Petros Elia. The Petros Elia.

  “Your Holiness—”

  “Tell him it’s beautiful,” Leila said. “Tell him I said it’s truly beautiful.”

  “As You wish.”

  “Tell him I extend My deepest gratitude. Tell him it moves Me. Tell him I love it.”

  “As You—”

  “I love it. Make sure to emphasize that. He needs to know unequivocally.”

  “He heard You,” Brontes barked.

  Leila shot him a glare, turning back to Hylas. “Emphasize it. Don’t forget.”

  “She’s finished.” Brontes flagged the guards. “Take it away.”

  Her stomach sank as the guards marched off with Her painting.

  “This concludes the presentation of the gifts.” Hylas bowed. “Gratitude to everyone for honoring Her Holiness.”

  “And what of the Sovereign?” Delphi said. “Is there no gift for his daughter on Her most anticipated of birthdays?”

  Brontes didn’t waver, his one eye locked on Leila. “My gift arrives tonight. Expect it at Your chamber, Your Holiness.”

  The feast continued in all its reverential glory, but Leila had grown tired of it. Once Her father’s gaze left Hers, She slipped away, taking in a full breath. Freedom—but not quite. Making certain She was alone, She glanced over Her shoulder before allowing the most freeing vision to overtake Her.

  The watchtower.

  Light pierced Her eyes, fading to harsh grey stone and a vast black sky.

  Leila leaned against the sill and stared out into the night. The watchtower was Her most treasured sanctuary. The conditions were haggard, but She didn’t care about the crumbling walls, the dust on the floor. She came for the evening air, the solitude, and more than anything the view. The entire realm lay before Her, its towns lit with specks of light, its rolling hills sprinkled with cottages. A meager escape from the confines of Her palace.

  Thessen. She strained Her eyes, focusing on the hillside, but predictably, nothing happened. The town. The village. The well. She tried to see Herself there, to summon Her light, but She remained in Her tower same as always.

  “Are You trying to leave?”

  Delphi sauntered up to Leila’s side, gazing out at the realm with Her. Sighing, Leila dragged Her fingertip along the rough stone. “I try every night. My power is constantly evolving, who’s to say it won’t work one day?”

  “No progress?”

  “The farthest I’ve gotten is the wall.”

  “Still can’t travel to places You’ve never been before, I take it?”

  Leila growled. “Such a pain. What good are gifts if they come with limitations?”

  “I think Your shadow walking serves You well. Certainly gives You a strategic advantage, since Brontes knows nothing of it. Our little secret, yes?”

  Leila mustered a smile. “I like that you call it that. Shadow walking. Makes it sound mysterious.”

  Her eyes made their way back to the realm, and Her smile died.

  “One day You’ll be able to leave,” Delphi said. “We both will. When it’s safe.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I felt safe.”

  “You will walk the streets of Thessen, and the people will weep in adoration.”

  Leila said nothing, tracing Her finger along the sill, drawing invisible circles.

  “Everything will be rectified. This tournament doesn’t mark Your end, it marks Your beginning.” Delphi came in closer. “Everything will work out as it should.”

  “I should’ve made moves sooner,” Leila muttered. “I should’ve disarmed the Senate years ago.”

  “No one can blame You for being reluctant.”

  “But now it’s all happening. And there’s so much left to do.”

  “Leila, You were a child when You learned of Your father’s treachery. Girls of the same age were playing with dolls, yet You began studying politics, training to protect Yourself.” Delphi leaned in closer. “Today is not Your coming of age. You and I know full well You became a woman long ago. You are strong, You are capable, but more than anything, You are prepared.”

  Leila didn’t waver, and Delphi’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing? Even after all that? I thought I was quite eloquent. I’m giving You my best material, You know.”

  “It’s funny. I’m The Savior, yet I haven’t saved much of anyone, have I?”

  “Andreas broke his arm, and You mended it in just two days. Eos, she had that terrible cyst, and Rosealie, when she struggled with childbirth.”

  “Ah yes, the palace staff. I’ve helped those within the walls of this fortress, and no one else.”

  “You bless the land every day,” Delphi maintained. “The whole of Thessen reaps Your harvests. You’ve told me time and again a sickness lingers beneath our soil, yet You alone keep it at bay. People are well because of You.”

  “Because of Me, The Savior locked in a cage.”

  “Leila—”

  “I’ve saved nothing,” Leila said. “And I’m starting to lose track of the men I’ve killed.”

  “Is that what this is about? You hate Yourself for circumstances beyond Your control?”

  “Nothing is supposed to be beyond My control,” Leila grumbled.

  “You’re doing what You can with what’s been given to You. You’re a warrior. A survivor.”

  “A killer. I kill people, Delphi.”

  “You rid the realm of corruption, as The Savior should. You protect Your people whether they know it or not.” Delphi glowered. “I swear, first You’re upset for not making moves sooner, now You call Yourself a killer. If You’re going to condemn Yourself, at least pick one or the other.”

  A heavy silence wedged between them, and Delphi sighed. “Apologies. You’re frustrated. I understand…”

  “It’s all right,” Leila muttered. “I’d just like to be alone, that’s all.”

  “I know. But You’ve been summoned.”

  “By who?”

  “Romulus.” Delphi nodded at the stairwell. “He’s waiting in the east wing.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course.”

  Leila rolled Her eyes. “Fucking hell.”

  The east wing. Delphi disappeared behind rays of white, and in her place stood a marble bust on a pedestal. The east wing materialized around Leila—cream walls, amber-brown tiles, and Romulus linge
ring a ways away.

  He walked through the space, gesturing for Her to follow, and Leila quickly reached his side. Glancing across the corridor, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t secure the Proctorship.”

  “You failed?”

  “Brontes went another way.”

  “Which way?”

  He hesitated. “Simon.”

  “Simon’s to be the Proctor?” Romulus nodded, and Leila growled. “I’ll correct this. The work never ends, not even on My birthday.”

  Romulus veered down another passage, while Leila continued along the stretch of sameness. Conflicted emotions battled in Her gut, but She forced them down, trying instead to see only Brontes’s glare and their unspoken war.

  To Simon’s chamber.

  “Your Holiness?”

  Leila spun around, meeting a golden mane and dumbfounded gaze. “Good God, Asher, you scared the shit out of Me.”

  Asher was considerably more clothed than the last time She saw him, decorated in silver armor with a spear in hand, but his eyes were lit with the same vacant awe. “Apologies, Your Holiness, I didn’t intend to startle You, nor to force such language from Your tongue.”

  “Oh yes, these virtuous lips of Mine burn at the taste of foul words,” Leila scoffed.

  “Really? Is that so?”

  Rolling Her eyes, Leila continued on Her way. “Good night, Asher.”

  “Wait.” He stepped forward. “Your Holiness, I was actually looking for You.”

  “You were?”

  “I waited at Your chamber for some time, but You never showed,” he said.

  “For what purpose?”

  “Your birthday gift. From the Sovereign.”

  “Oh.” She folded Her arms. “Well, go on then. Hand it over.”

  “It’s me. I’m the birthday gift.”

  “…You’re My birthday gift.”

  “That’s right.”

  She eyed him up and down. “I don’t…understand…”

  “From this night forward, I’m to be Your personal guard.” He held his chin high. “Each evening I will stand watch outside Your chamber. Should anyone try to disturb You or God forbid seek You harm, they will be met by my vow and my spear.”

  Leila faltered. “You’re My personal guard?”