The Savior's Sister
Page 7
“Fifty thousand?” Leila spoke before She could stop Herself. “That’s over double the allowance of the last tournament. More than any tournament in history.”
Brontes let out a grunt. “Inflation rates.”
“Inflation isn’t that high.”
“Your Holiness, Your competitors will be battling grave dangers in the pursuit of Your affection,” Wembleton said. “Surely their families ought to be honored for releasing their sons for such a heroic endeavor.”
Leila scowled. “Honored? Do you mean incentivized?”
“There is no incentive greater than the love of The Savior. And such a generous allowance is in keeping with Your father’s pious reputation.” Kastor leaned in closer to Her, offering a smile that matched his soft, low voice. “There’s no need to be wary. I assure You, You are more than worth it.”
Leila looked him in the eyes, wishing the Senator’s hazel gaze wasn’t so gentle, that his handsome face matched his ugly insides. Kastor was the youngest of them all—thirty or so—with long black hair, a short, groomed beard, and copper skin chiseled and carved. His act was more convincing than the others, nearly enough to make him seem warm, as if he wasn’t abetting Her end. But he was.
Leila turned away. “Well then, if that’s all—”
“Actually, Your Holiness, there are other matters to discuss,” Wembleton said. “Namely tomorrow’s commencement ceremony.”
Leila faltered. “The commencement ceremony?”
“For the tournament.” Wembleton beamed. “The ceremony marks its grand introduction, and it’s imperative that all things run smoothly. Thus, if I could humbly steal a moment of Your time so we can discuss the formalities, the decorum, Your entrance—”
Leila’s stomach clenched. “My entrance?”
“Of course. You’re the most esteemed guest of the ceremony. The people of Thessen will be overjoyed to finally lay their eyes upon their Queen—”
“I won’t be attending,” Leila said.
Wembleton’s face dropped. “Come again?”
“I won’t be attending the ceremony.”
All eyes panned to Leila, but She held firm. Come tomorrow, She was anyone but The Savior, and no ceremony was going to ruin that.
Brontes’s jaw tightened. “Do not play games with us. I haven’t the patience.”
“I’m not going. No need to trouble yourself with My entrance, because I won’t be making one.”
“Your Holiness, You’ve expressed such disdain over Your confinement,” Wembleton said. “Don’t You see, this is Your opportunity to finally reveal Yourself to Your people.”
“Perhaps another time.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Brontes growled. “A royal is required to attend—”
“Then you go, Your Highness.” Leila met his glare with Her own. “This is your tournament after all. Isn’t that what you said?”
“You’re going to that ceremony. You will sit with Wembleton, and You will make Your plans—”
“Wembleton, let it be on record that My father will be attending the ceremony in My stead.”
“Enough—”
“While the Sovereign is in full dictatorship of his tournament, there is no law that states he can force The Savior’s hand,” Leila said. “You can search the scrolls, but trust Me when I say I have them memorized. And it seems you haven’t the time to change the laws yourself, as the lot of you have done so many times before.”
“One more word, and I swear—”
“You’ve made it clear this tournament is yours to control. But you cannot control My participation. If a royal must attend tomorrow’s ceremony, that royal will be you, because it most certainly will not be Me.”
Brontes’s lips curled into a grimace. “You little bitch.”
“My decision is final.”
“I’m warning You—”
“I said I’m not going!” She barked.
Silence filled the space. Brontes’s glare turned sinister, and color lifted from his flesh, swimming through the air.
Red.
Rage.
“A word alone with my daughter,” he said.
Wembleton cleared his throat. “Who calls this meeting to—?”
“Now.”
The Senators shot up from their seats and hurried from the room, leaving a heavy quiet. There was only Leila, Her father, and his seething red.
“Don’t you have arrangements to make?” Her nerves stirred, but She played with Her hair, feigning indifference. “For your appearance at the ceremony?”
Brontes circled the table. “You dare to defy me? In front of my entire Senate?”
“It wasn’t the entire Senate. Remember, Gelanor and Simon are missing.”
“You humiliated me in front of my constituents.”
“I was exercising My legal right. Perhaps if you were more educated in Thessian law, this humiliation would’ve been avoided.”
Brontes stopped at Her side. “You raise Your voice to me, the Sovereign of Thessen, in his own Senate room.”
Leila’s knees wobbled, but She stood. “I can speak to you how I please. You are beneath Me.”
His hand plunged into Her hair, grabbing a fistful and slamming Her against the table. Pain fired through Her cheek, a familiar ache, yet it never ceased to shock Her. He wrestled Her wrists behind Her back, pinning Her down.
“Am I still beneath You? From where I’m standing, it doesn’t appear so.”
Yanking Her from the table, He shoved Her against the wall, sending new aches splintering through Her.
“Where’s that light of Yours?” he hissed. “All that power You boast of? Will it show itself? Will it stop me?”
Shadow walk. The urge was fierce, but She forced Herself still. She wouldn’t reveal Her hand.
“You know, there was a time when You weren’t such a wretched cunt,” he said. “Whenever did that change?”
Leila spoke through gritted teeth. “I took after My dear father.”
“You remember that nanny You had when You were young? Delphinium’s mother. I’ve forgotten her name. She pulled Your wet body from Your mother’s corpse. Brought You to this palace. You were an ugly shit, small and hairless, horrid to look at. She insisted I give You a name that carried meaning. So after some thought, I decided on Leila. Darkness. Because the day You arrived here was the darkest day of my life.”
Another ache shot through Her, one She had known since She was a little girl.
“Years later, the name continues to suit You well,” he said. “Because since that day, You’ve never ceased being a black cloud over this palace.”
“So sorry to have burdened you, Father,” Leila muttered.
“I don’t blame You for hating this tournament. I actually admire Your foresight.” He loosened his grip, running his fingers through Her hair. “How painful it must feel, knowing twenty men are about to come upon this fortress, and none of them will care for You. As soon as they make Your acquaintance, they’ll see what I see.” He brought his lips to Her ear. “A mistake. And not a single one of them could possibly bring themselves to love You.”
Leila said nothing, festering in Her indignity.
“You’re smart, my little Dark One, to see this. Gives You time to prepare for the hurt.”
“Can I go now?”
Brontes released Her, sending Her staggering across the floor before charging from the room.
Leila headed through the palace, holding Her head high—a bitter lie. Perhaps Brontes was watching Her, reveling in his victory.
Don’t let him win.
She rounded the corner, and tears flooded Her eyes. Her insides stirred, piqued and trembling, and soon the rest of Her followed suit, Her hands shaking at Her sides, Her feet walking, then running through the corridor, up the stairs. Shame, hurt, and humiliation bombarded Her, tearing holes in Her pride, but the burning of Her blackened insides filled Her with purpose.
As Leila barreled into the chamber, Cosima spun
around, startled. “Leila, what a pleasant… Oh my God, are You all right?”
Don’t let him win. Leila forced the tears aside.
“I need to ask for a favor.”
4
The Commencement
The roar of the audience was a whisper to Leila. Sitting on the watchtower sill, She observed the commencement ceremony from afar, taking in the theater. A man made his way through the arena, followed by another—ants from where She sat, small enough to crush.
“You’re glowing. They can see You.”
Delphi leaned against the sill at Her side, but Leila kept Her eyes on the arena. “No one’s looking at Me.”
A tiny Wembleton waved his arms, no doubt blathering with delight. The entire display was devoid of purpose, empty in a way that felt contagious, as if Leila had become hollow by association. Another man entered the arena, and the crowd howled louder, shrill with the adoring cries of women. He must’ve been a sight.
“They look handsome,” Delphi said.
Leila shrugged. “You can hardly see them. They’re specks.”
“They look like handsome specks.”
“They look like fools to Me.”
The last competitor marched into the arena, and soon after a man joined Wembleton in the royal balcony.
Brontes. The vilest speck of them all.
A hush fell over the pews. Leila whispered to Delphi as if the people might hear Her. “What’s happening?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’m right here beside You.”
The cheering returned with abrupt force, and a gate within the arena clanked opened. The entrance to the labyrinth.
One by one, the men filed through the blackened portal and vanished from sight.
Leila flinched as the gate slammed shut. The crowd roared in approval, but She didn’t share their joy. The tournament had begun, and so had the countdown to Her death.
“The competitors.” Leila turned to Delphi. “I want their records. All of them.”
The servants had gathered notes on each man, a worthwhile asset if Leila had any clue where to find them. They dashed from the watchtower and scoured the palace, searching for a distinct set of scrolls. After hours of darting from room to room, rifling through documents and poking through drawers, Delphi tiptoed from one of the servants’ stations, her arms overflowing with parchment.
Leila threw open the door to Her study and darted inside. The room was once covered in pink and reserved for play, but She had long since filled it with darkness. The walls were a deep plum; the curtains, desk, and shelves were black; the only spot of brightness came from the rose silk couches. The sisters took root at a round ebony table, fanning out the scrolls, and from that point forward their eyes belonged to the men of the tournament.
The Brave. Age: 26. Hair: red. Eyes: blue.
The Intellect. Age: 23. Hair: black. Eyes: brown.
Leila flipped through each scroll, taking in man after man.
“Look at these names,” Delphi said. “The Prince, the Jester, the Dog. Makes them sound more like characters than men.”
“I think that’s the point,” Leila murmured, distaste lacing Her words.
The Regal. The Poet. Each competitor had been given a laurel—a useless title to wear with false pride—then further divided into categories. Savants, Stalwarts—She snorted upon reading of the Lords, men of coin and beauty. The final category sent Her eyes narrowing.
The Beasts. These were the men She was looking for.
“Are you memorizing all of them?” Delphi asked.
Leila’s gaze didn’t lift from the parchment. “Indeed I am.”
“You’re suddenly interested?”
“I need to study them. They’re coming into My home. I need to be prepared.”
“You don’t trust them.”
Leila scoffed. “Why should I?”
“I thought we were searching for the assassins.”
“We are. But we can do two things at once, yes?”
“Well then, be sure to read thoroughly. You’ve got everything You’d care to know about them right at Your fingertips, down to the size of their cocks.” Delphi winked. “That’s the most important part of all.”
The door crept open, and four faces poked into the room. “What are you doing?” Nyx asked.
“Reading up on cocks,” Delphi said nonchalantly.
Faun’s eyes locked onto the parchment. “Are those the competitors’ records?”
Hemera shoved past the others. “Oh good, Leila’s finally coming around! I knew She would.”
Nyx, Faun, and Damaris followed her into the study, giggling over the scrolls. A groan rose in Leila’s throat, but She forced it down, returning to Her work.
The Artist. Age: 21. Hair: brown. Eyes: black. She faltered. Black?
“One man, I swear, is fated for You.” Damaris peered over Leila’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe it, he ran in right as the pool was closing, barefoot no less. And he just so happens to be the exact man for You.”
“I heard one of the men made it in by his cock alone,” Hemera said.
Faun gasped. “No!”
“Yes!” Hemera leaned in closer. “Shae said it was the largest she had seen all day. Practically had to fold it in half just to fit it in his pants.”
“God, no more of this. All day yesterday it was men, men, men. I’m positively tired of them.” Nyx gestured toward her sister. “Deal.”
Hemera pulled two decks of cards from her pocket and laid them on the table, sweeping Leila’s scrolls aside, polluting Her workstation. Oh, for God’s sake…
Damaris turned to Delphi and Leila. “Would the two of you like to play?”
“Don’t invite Leila! She always wins.”
Hemera swatted her sister’s arm. “Nyx, She’s The Savior!”
“The Savior who always wins.”
“We’re all right for now, thank you,” Leila muttered.
The Prince. The Hunter. She brought the next scroll up to Her face, trying to block out all distractions.
“How was the ceremony?” Damaris asked. “Were they just as You pictured?”
Sighing, Leila dropped the parchment. “The ceremony was fine.”
“She didn’t go,” Delphi said.
Hemera’s eyes widened. “You didn’t go to the ceremony?”
Faun crossed her arms. “Leila, more of this?”
“She was assisting me.” Cosima waltzed into the room wearing sunny yellow and a bright smile. “The poor dove, I was feeling so ill this morning, and our little Leila was the only one who could help me. She sacrificed Her own ceremony for my well-being. I can never repay Her. Are these all the men I stole You away from?” She plucked one of the scrolls from the table and laughed. “Good God, have You read this? It’s got the length of his cock and everything. This one’s not impressive. Don’t pick the Physician.”
“Are You supposed to see these?” Damaris leafed through a few records. “I thought they were for staff only.”
“What Mousumi doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Leila said.
“Your Holiness, a word…”
As if summoned by Her thoughts, Mousumi walked into the room, stopping at the sight of the scrolls. “Are those the competitors’ records? Where did You get those?”
Leila grimaced. Spoke too soon.
“Don’t look at us,” Nyx said. “She had them out when we got here.”
Mousumi scowled. “Your Holiness, it’s against tournament regulation for The Savior to view these records.”
“I’m almost finished. It’ll only be a moment.” Leila waved her away.
“It’ll taint Your opinion of the men.”
“Trust Me, My opinion has long been tainted.”
“This is Your father’s tournament. If he were to learn of this transgression, he’d be—”
“Pissed to shit, I’m sure you’re right.” Leila kept Her eyes on the scrolls. “So if we could keep this between the lot of us—”
Leila slumped in Her seat. “Never mind.”
Cecily’s face dropped. “Child, You can’t look at those. It’ll spoil the excitement of meeting them on Your own.”
“Oh, it’s all in good fun, let Her play,” Cosima said.
“It feels like play now, but it’ll pollute Her mind, I’m certain.” Cecily marched to the table and began plucking up slips. “Come, let’s gather them up.”
Delphi ripped the scrolls from her hands, and the room erupted, the women arguing on top of one another. Blocking out the disarray, Leila focused on the scrolls—pages She had read a hundred times over, but something was missing. She breezed through them again: the Cetus, the Noble, man after man with his own moniker and category. Five Savants, five Stalwarts, five Lords—
Two Beasts.
“Wait!”
All eyes landed on Leila, who had stopped reading the scrolls and started counting them. “Seventeen.” She went through the stack once more. “There’s only seventeen scrolls. Where are the last three?”
Mousumi hesitated. “That should be all of them, Your Holiness.”
Cecily spun toward her. “You lost them?”
“I didn’t lose anything.”
Another fit filled the space, and Leila groaned. “Ladies, I’d like a moment alone with My sisters.”
The servants glanced at one another before filing reluctantly from the room. As the door closed behind them, Leila turned to Delphi and Cosima, pressing Her finger into the stack of parchment. “The assassins. They’re the ones missing. They have to be.”
“They never entered the pool.” Delphi’s hands fell into her lap. “Of course.”
“And we don’t even know their laurels,” Leila muttered.
Sighing, Cosima shook her head. “What troubled times. But if anyone can tackle such a predicament, it’s You. And I’m thrilled to be of service.” She hopped from her seat and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Delphi called out. “I thought you were thrilled to be of service.”