The Savior's Sister

by Jenna Moreci

  “No.” She dug Her nails into Her chair. “I won’t watch a man plead his case only to die.”

  Brontes clenched his jaw. “We are not doing this. You’re going to the hearing.”

  “The law forbids you from forcing My hand. You have no legal right—”

  “I am the law.”

  She spun toward the others. “Wembleton, tell him!”

  “I’m warning You, I haven’t the patience,” Brontes said.

  She kept Her eyes on the portly Senator. “Tell him.”

  Wembleton didn’t speak, his downcast stare boring through the table. Before Leila could react, two brawny hands grabbed Her, yanking Her from Her seat.

  Leila collapsed, fighting against Her father’s grasp. “Let go of Me!”

  Hylas shot up from his seat. “Your Highness, please, you can’t—”

  Brontes kicked open the door, and Leila’s body lurched across the floor. He dragged Her thrashing and shrieking from the Senate room through the heart of the palace, while sandaled feet marched at Her sides—guards escorting them along their way, deadened to The Savior’s screams. Servants lined up to gawk, and Delphi darted toward the scene only to be stopped by a drawn spear. Leila fought to channel Her light, but still Her spine scraped along the tiles, Her mind too overwrought to function.

  Brontes held the power, and now everyone knew it.

  He dropped Leila’s arms, letting them crack against the floor. She scrambled onto Her knees, tears streaming down Her cheeks. Sunlight washed over Her; She sat at the entryway of Her palace staring out at the courtyard.

  “Are You ready to behave?” He lowered his voice. “Or would You like me to release my frustrations on someone else? Perhaps a foulmouthed Artist?”

  His words were a knife to Her pride, but She stood, allowing the blade to plunge deeper. He snatched up Her arm and led Her down the steps and through the fortress, digging his claws in deep enough to bruise. Men walked in formation around Her—the guards, perhaps others, She didn’t know, didn’t care. Her skin was glowing.

  Soon the people—and the competitors—would know who She really was.

  Bile sat in Her throat as She filed up the steps of the arena. The royal balcony appeared, a vast space lined in marble pillars with gold molding, with trays of meats, cheese, and wine, but Her eyes went straight to the ruby canopy blocking the unforgiving sun.

  Thank God.

  Her father shoved Her, sending Her teetering onto the balcony. The arena lay ahead, its yellow sands, its brick walls, and the countless pews brimming with thousands upon thousands of howling spectators.

  Her hands trembled. She had never seen so many people before, and God, the noise. Gasping for air, She pressed Her back to the wall.

  “Take a seat.”

  Brontes waited in the stairwell with his guards. Glowering, he gestured toward the two golden thrones before Her.

  One for the Sovereign, and another for The Savior.

  “Take a seat.”

  Delphi shouldered past him, shooting up the balcony steps. “Leila.” She took Her hands. “I hadn’t time to grab our cloaks. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  A few stray tears escaped Leila’s eyes. “Everyone’s here.”

  “So are we.” Delphi gestured behind her—Pippa and Cosima had joined them—and lowered her voice. “We stand as one. No one will know Your title.”

  “The Savior could be any one of us,” Cosima whispered.

  The women lined up alongside Leila, taking root against the wall. Pippa leaned forward, eyeing Leila. “Why is Your face red?”

  “Leila, God dammit,” Brontes spat.

  “She chooses to stand with Her sisters for comfort.” Delphi shot him a glare. “We’re about to witness an execution. You know how sensitive women can be to the sight of blood. It betrays our delicate nature.”

  Brontes let out a huff but said nothing. A clank sounded, and one of the arena gates opened, sending the audience into a frenzy. Guards poured through the portal, lining the sands with their spears pointed up to the sky, and six men adorned in golden armor followed—the competitors.

  Except for Garrick.

  They stood in formation, the sun casting a brilliant sheen across their golden shoulder plates. For once Leila didn’t search for Tobias, too lost in the havoc of Her thoughts. So many people. Each breath came out sharp, Her ribs crushed by the grip of the audience. Did they know who She was? Could they tell?

  Wembleton burst onto the balcony. “Citizens of Thessen, please join me in welcoming your Sovereign!”

  A wave of applause washed over Leila. Brontes marched toward his throne, not bothering to look Her way as he took his seat. “Bring him out.”

  Another gate opened, and Garrick emerged, unleashing vitriol from the pews.

  Was this truly Her realm? A horde of bloodthirsty animals?

  “The hearing begins now,” Wembleton said.

  The arena went quiet, all eyes on the royal balcony.

  On Her.

  Brontes. They’re staring at Brontes. She clutched Her dress, fighting to keep Herself still.

  “Who stands before me?” Brontes said.

  Garrick bowed his head. “The Brave, Your Highness.”

  “And what is your purpose here?”

  “I am requesting permission to leave the Sovereign’s Tournament.”

  Venom erupted from the audience, but Brontes silenced them with a raised hand. “The Brave appeals to leave the Sovereign’s Tournament. You see the irony here, yes?”

  “It is not without just reason, Your Highness.”

  “My daughter… She was distraught this morning. Even now, She refuses to sit in Her throne, hangs in the back like a common servant. You’ve deeply offended Her.”

  A blaze crackled in Leila’s chest. As Garrick spoke, Cosima’s hand wriggled into Hers, giving a comforting squeeze. Surely the people thought Brontes spoke of her. They had to.

  “Do you know how many tournaments this realm has held?” Brontes said.

  Garrick hesitated. “No, Your Highness.”

  “Neither do I. It’s a tradition that’s lasted centuries. Ingrained in our very culture—a part of who we are as Thessians. This tournament isn’t just for my daughter, it’s for the people. You’ve failed them.”

  There was no greater failure to Thessen than Brontes himself.

  “Do you know how many men have quit the Sovereign’s Tournament?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Garrick said.

  “Three. In its entire history. Do you know what happened to those three men?” Brontes didn’t wait for a response. “Executed. On the spot. One was hung. Another beheaded. Another was dragged for miles through the heart of the realm. They say the streets were red with blood for weeks. Rain was especially scarce that season.”

  He leaned back in his throne, too comfortable for Leila’s tastes. “But today, before the people, I grant you a hearing. You are the Brave, a man of The Savior’s army, and such a man wouldn’t withdraw from the mightiest of endeavors without good cause. So after much deliberation, I feel it’s only right to hear your case.”

  “That’s because you’re kind and merciful, Your Highness.”

  “Speak,” Brontes ordered. “Tell me your reasons. Why do you choose to abandon my daughter?”

  Garrick launched into his defense, well-rehearsed and brimming with lies. “I am meant to wear a helmet, not a crown.” Leila stopped listening, distracted by Her churning thoughts. What was the point of this hearing in the first place? How could this possibly benefit Brontes in any way?

  “Your aim is to serve the realm at your greatest capacity,” Brontes said. “As a soldier.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Garrick exhaled. “As the leader of Her army, you of all people can understand the importance of my service.”

  Brontes sat in silence, strumming his fingers against the armrest of his throne. “It’s very noble of you to sacrifice the crown to return to a life of service.”

 
“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the good of Thessen.” Garrick’s shoulders drooped. “And to be honest, I don’t think your daughter will miss my presence. I’ve yet to win any time alone in Her company. I by no means attempt to speak for Her, but I don’t believe She favors me.”

  “And who do you think She favors?”

  “Your blessed ones, of course. The Shepherd and the Dragon.”

  Leila’s gaze shot toward the competitors in their golden armor. Her assassins stood tall, the sight simmering Her blood.

  Garrick choked out his next words. “And possibly the Artist as well.”

  “ARTIST. ARTIST.” The pews were roused and alive, shouting Tobias’s laurel ravenously. Despite Her better judgment, She looked for Tobias within the line, only to find him staring at Her—or was he? It was so hard to tell from such a distance, and if She couldn’t make out the path of his gaze, certainly the people couldn’t either.

  “So, Brave,” Brontes said, “you leave this tournament, not as an affront to my daughter, but to return to your rightful position in Her army. You see that She doesn’t favor you, and you believe you’re of better service as a soldier than as Champion. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Sound reasons.”

  None of this made sense. Brontes hadn’t the time nor the patience to toy with men. Why was Garrick still living?

  “You mentioned my blessed ones earlier.” Brontes gestured toward the line of competitors. “They stand behind you, you know.”

  Garrick didn’t answer, so Brontes continued. “The Dragon. Do you fear him?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you afraid of the Dragon, Brave?”

  Garrick squared his shoulders. “I fear no one, Your Highness.”

  “He’s killed two men in this tournament. One of those kills occurred just the other day. He’s fought diligently for the crown and for my daughter. You know this, yet still you don’t fear him. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Then why is it you demanded to leave this tournament just after the Dragon put an end to the Bear?” Brontes spat. “After he challenged you, publicly? Why did so many report to me that after he called your name, you came running to the palace like a little bitch?”

  The pews stirred, as did Leila’s nerves.

  “Lies, Your Highness,” Garrick said. “All lies.”

  “You lie, Brave. You leave to protect your hide, not for the service and glory of Thessen.”

  “Your Highness—”

  “I gave the Dragon my blessing for a reason. Because I knew he was capable of exposing cowards like you.” Brontes stared out at the pews, his chin high. “People of Thessen, I am a hard and stern Sovereign, but I am not without warmth.”

  Leila started. What did he say?

  “To these men, I have offered shelter. Council. Camaraderie.” Brontes glared down at the competitors. “I welcome you into my home. Treat you as royal guests. As sons. Yet still, I am betrayed.”

  The pounding of Her heart turned explosive, rattling Her bones.

  “As for my daughter?” Brontes said. “She is my world, just as Her mother was before Her. Her mother, slaughtered in the street. Killed by a man with no regard for Her rule. You all know what I do to those who cross me. Who cross The Savior. That traitor was tortured for your approval. I carved his blasphemous tongue from the back of his throat myself. For The Savior. For Thessen.”

  The audience overflowed with rage, and Leila felt it too—for Her father, the falsehoods on his tongue, and the ease with which he spoke them.

  “Now my daughter stands before you of age, free to select a husband, and it is my duty to ensure Her choice is fit for this throne. Throughout this tournament, challenge after challenge, I have stood beside Her, not for my own pleasure, but for Her aid exclusively.” He pointed out at the competitors violently, as if his hand were a blade. “These men have witnessed our affection, can attest to our unshakable bond, for we are united not just as Rulers of Thessen, but by the love that only a father and daughter can share.”

  Gripping his armrests, he seethed with an anger that almost appeared real. “My daughter is a woman forced to grow without a mother. I am all She has. I ended the man who took Her mother. Do you think for a second I would allow anyone to cross Her?”

  Leila clamped down on Her lip, counting the seconds until Garrick lay dead. Surely this was worse than any execution—listening to Her father speak of a love that never existed.

  Garrick paled. “Y-Your Highness, please—”

  “Enough!” Brontes spat. “You’ve lied to me. I can overlook that. But I cannot overlook the pain you’ve caused my daughter. Her heart breaks because of you. Inconsolable, because of you. Weak, even in this moment. Because of you.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Look at my daughter. You vowed to die for Her. And today, you honor that vow.” Brontes gazed out at the back of the arena. “Guards!”

  Three men in silver surrounded Garrick, holding him still before slamming a spear through the small of his back. Blood poured onto the sands, painting the ground red as Garrick collapsed in a heap. All of it was a meaningless blur to Leila; She stared up at the waves of people chanting a horrid word.

  “CYCLOPS.”

  The title echoed off the arena walls—Her father’s laurel from his time in the Sovereign’s Tournament.

  “A warning to the men who stand before me,” Brontes said. “Challenge me, and I promise your fate will make the Brave’s look like mercy.”

  “CYCLOPS. CYCLOPS.” The people roared with adoration, and Leila’s heart splintered beneath the weight of their praise. They loved Brontes, a doting father willing to kill for his daughter. A man who would never harm The Savior, and if some horror were to befall Her, surely he would have had nothing to do with it. It was all so convincing.

  Leila didn’t bother halting Her tears. This hearing had nothing to do with Garrick. It was about Brontes, his honor and piousness. In a few days, Leila would die within the walls of Her own home, and no one would suspect the Sovereign.

  24

  The Garden

  Garrick’s corpse hung above the fortress gate. Soldiers must’ve spent hours securing him, a hideous warning for anyone on the other side. The news of Garrick’s resting place had spread throughout the palace, but Leila had to see it for Herself. All She could make out was his ashen back, his strung arms, and the yawning entry-wound of his fatal blow. Thank God he was too far up to smell.

  Delphi shook her head. “I swear, Your father wants to take us back to the Age of Darkness.”

  Guards stood at attention beside the wall, though Leila paid them no mind. Her eyes bore through the body—Her father’s legacy.

  Death.

  “Come.” She turned away. “We do it now.”

  The sisters walked back to the palace in silence. Yesterday’s humiliation was fresh in Leila’s mind, Her bones quaking with untapped rage. Someone would pay for the affront.

  They headed down the secluded corridor, stopping at a familiar door. “Do You think he’s in there?” Delphi said.

  “It’s barely sunup. He likely hasn’t even risen yet.”

  “I’m coming in with You.”

  “Absolutely not. You stay here and watch.”

  Delphi crossed her arms. “Who are You to dictate my actions?”

  “I’m The Savior.”

  “You’re a dumb bitch is what You are.”

  A servant rounded the corner, starting at the sight of the sisters. Bowing her head, she cooed a pleasantry before walking off.

  “She saw us.” Leila turned to Delphi. “What if she tells someone?”

  “She won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Delphi smirked, and her wink sent Leila’s eyes rolling. “God…”

  The door swung open, revealing a rotund Senator. “Your Holiness?”

  Leila grabbed Wembleton’s drape, shoving hi
m into his bedchamber while Delphi slammed the door behind them. Grasping his face, She pinned him to the wall, his oily flesh squishing beneath Her fingers. How could such a large man be so weak?

  “Your Holiness, please—”

  “You had one chance,” Leila said. “One opportunity to prove your allegiance to Me. And you failed.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “My father dragged Me through the palace. Demeaned Me in My home. Thrust Me on display before My people. And you did nothing.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. It happened so fast—”

  “Well I promise you this”—Leila unsheathed Her blade, pressing it against the Senator’s belly—“what you’re about to endure will be very slow.”

  “Someone moves against You!”

  “Save your begging, I already know of the Kovahrians.”

  “In the palace!” Wembleton winced. “Someone moves against You within the palace. Outside the Senate. Someone in Your access, close to You in some way.”

  Leila faltered. Close to Me? She spun toward Delphi. “It can’t be Pippa.” Her eyes widened. “Cosima.”

  “If it were Cosima, Brontes would’ve learned of our ruse long ago,” Delphi said.

  “There’s no one else.”

  “Except for Your lovely servant girls who dote on You day after day, well within Your access.”

  Leila’s gut sank. Hundreds of faces passed through Her mind, along with white dresses, bowed heads. “Oh My God… There are so many of them…”

  “I’m the only one who knows of this informant,” Wembleton croaked. “There was another—”

  “Who?”

  “K-Kastor is dead, Your Holiness.”

  She swallowed the curse words in Her throat. Someone was betraying Her, and Her only link to them was the waste of a man before Her.

  “I don’t know who this traitor is, but I can find out for You,” Wembleton said. “Brontes is speaking with them through secret means—through packages and…and gifts—”

  Leila’s back shot straight. “The necklaces.”

  She dissolved within a surge of light, materializing in Her study and snatching up the string of jewels. Power burst through Her as She reappeared in the Senator’s chamber, where Wembleton was still clambering against the wall.