by Ava Jae
Although I don’t look at him, I hear the scowl in his words. “Servants, sha. Not trash.”
I face him again. “If you prefer, I can move him elsewhere. I wasn’t aware he was such an eyesore.”
“He doesn’t need to be moved—he needs to be executed. He shouldn’t be alive, Kora, you know that. Half-bloods are terminated at birth for a reason—you let a couple live and you risk others following suit and weakening our species. Do you want to be responsible for that?”
He’s right, of course. It’s incredible that the half-blood has lived this long—how he escaped execution is beyond me—but now that he’s here, I won’t throw away his potential.
I keep my face expressionless. “He’s one half-blood, and he’s not exactly attempting a genetic overhaul. Unless you’re suggesting he’s contagious and will somehow contaminate your men.”
Dima steps toward me. His height intimidates most, but it’s difficult to intimidate someone who’s seen you run around the palace naked with a scarf wrapped around your head as a child. “You find this amusing,” he says.
“I wouldn’t be giving you the credit you deserve if I didn’t admit you entertain me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Why do you keep him alive? And on palace grounds, no less.”
“I have my reasons.” I sit on my desk and lean back on my arms as Iro curls up at the floor beneath my feet, his tail swishing slowly over the stone. Dima scowls at the animal and I keep my voice firm. “You will respect my decision.”
His pale-to-dark eyes flash for just a moment, but then he drops to one knee, his arm pulled across his chest. “As you wish, el Avra.”
I roll my eyes. “Kala, Dima. I’m asking you as your sister, not your ruler.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says stiffly. “Not if you wish him to live.”
I frown, hop off the desk, and put my hand on his broad shoulder. “You need to trust me. I have good reasons for keeping him here. He will prove useful, you’ll see.”
“You ask me to trust you, and yet you do not extend me the same courtesy.” He looks up at me. “Or will you tell me why you insist on keeping him alive?”
There was a time when I confided everything in Dima. As children we were secluded, kept away from others our age, so having a twin was the greatest kind of blessing—a dear friend I wouldn’t have had otherwise. But that was before I took the throne. Before I began to question just how wise it was to trust him.
Because the truth is, my brother is the reason I need the half-blood. Because I would be stupid to ignore the swaying allegiance of my guard and the whispered half-conversations that cease abruptly when I enter a room. It’s no secret that most believe a strong male warrior would be better suited on the throne, and eventually I may need someone to help protect me from the very people who have sworn their lives to me. If I want to keep the throne and survive, it is my responsibility, and mine alone, to keep myself safe so that I may.
But I can’t say that to Dima, and my hesitation is all the answer he needs.
He stands and turns away from me. “He’ll live, Kora, but only as long as he respects his place.”
I start to answer, but then someone raps on my door and Dima pulls it open before I give the order. A guard steps inside and drops to his knee as my brother slips out into the hallway. It’s not the way I wanted this conversation to end, but it’ll have to do.
“El Avra,” the guard says, his head bowed low.
I sit at my desk and try not to sound as irritated as I am. “Sha, what is it?”
“The priestess is ready for you, el Avra. She requested I summon you at once, before the suns reach their full height.”
The priestess! I’d forgotten all about the Cleansing today—a ritual every Eljan Avra must perform every eighty-eight sets to refocus on Kala. Truth be told, my focus has been stretched thin this past term and a half, and none of it in places that would make the priestess—or, more importantly, Kala—happy.
“Of course.” I stand. “Let’s go at once.”
We walk to the High Temple with guards flanking me on either side. Soldiers and servants alike bow as I walk past them, their eyes low as they murmur Avra in my wake. I keep my gaze focused forward, my shoulders back, and my head high as we move past them. Strength, I remind myself with every step. Strength and power. Demand respect.
The hard white pathways are warm against my feet as the suns wrap me in their stiflingly hot embrace. We pass glistening white fountains filled with colorful gems, and rows of white and silver unaï trees bordering the pathways. A warm breeze blows powdery red sand over my toes and a thin crimson layer sticks to my skin.
After moving beyond the main palace complex, the barracks, and servants’ quarters, we are greeted by eight tall white and glass spires topped with floating golden spheres. Like most of the buildings on the complex, the temple is primarily white, built with aska—a white stone from Denae d’Invino, the mountains of the northern lands, that reflects subtle colors in the sunlight. Unlike most of the buildings, however, the intricately carved stone is coated in glass, which magnifies the multicolored sheen of the stone, making the whole building glisten brilliantly. The temple is the most beautiful building on the palace grounds, as it should be.
When we near the enormous golden doors, the guards stop. Only an Avra or a priest or priestess is permitted to touch the sacred double doors, which are blessed every morning with the rising of the suns. I take a moment to admire the beautiful designs carved into the gleaming doors—identical swirls with twisting paths and tight lines folding in on themselves on both doors, one the mirror image of the other. The high priests of Inara carved the doors by hand many generations ago when the temple was first built.
Breathing a soft prayer of blessing, I dismiss my guards with a nod. No one may enter the temple when the doors are closed without express permission, or in my case, an invitation, from a priest or priestess. I enter, and the heavy doors swing closed behind me with a resounding thud that echoes in the small reception room.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. Closed off to the sanctuary and any windows, the reception room is lit only by golden candles—more out of tradition than lack of a more effective lighting system. The floors are cool, rough sandstone and the walls are draped in a matte dark red cloth, obscuring the archways leading to other rooms.
A section of cloth to my left ripples and shifts as the priestess steps into the room. Her beautiful near-black skin is lined with startling white markings that fill Kala’s mark across her body. The markings swirl around her face, intricately lining her cheeks, forehead, chin, and lips with small, tight letters. Dark, braided hair wraps around her skull and pours over her shoulders, reaching nearly her knees.
But most striking—and chilling—are her eyes. All of the priests and priestesses inject themselves with some kind of nanite serum during rituals and prayers that supposedly opens them to Kala’s messages. It also turns their eyes permanently pale and almost colorless, save for the pupils. Hers are a light pink, purple, and yellow, but the tint is so light that it looks nearly white.
“El Avra,” she says softly, bowing low. Her loose robes scrape quietly against the floor as she moves toward me and gestures toward the wall she came in through. “It is time, Kala’s Blessed.”
She turns away and steps through the curtained archway. I follow in silence.
Like the entry room, the outer hallways bordering the sanctuary have low ceilings and are candlelit only. We step through the dimly lit hallway, careful to remain as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the sanctuary. The priestess’s long braided hair swishes softly side to side as she walks, not unlike Iro’s tail. I smile slightly, then press my lips firmly together—I’m supposed to be focusing on Kala, not wakedreaming about my pet.
I have to take this seriously. I’m Avra. The people expect me to remain spiritual so I may receive wisdom from our Maker—though it’s unclear to me whethe
r anyone other than the priests or priestesses ever receive some sort of divine counsel. It’s certainly never happened to me, not that I’ve admitted as much to anyone.
Last thing I need is to give anyone more reason to doubt my ability to rule.
My father’s words echo through my mind. Strength and power, Kora. Demand respect and it is yours.
After stepping through another curtained archway, we enter the first of the cleansing rooms, where two young apprentice priests and an apprentice priestess waits. Their eyes have not yet lightened, and they wear the unadorned, itchy gray robes of ones in training. In the center of the candlelit room is a small pool embedded in the floor, filled to the brim with steaming water. I step to the edge of the pool and wait as the apprentices come forward and slip off my wrapped top and skirt.
This is a part of the process I wish I could do myself—it feels rather juvenile to have to stand here uselessly while actual juveniles remove my clothing—but it’s supposed to represent the divine stripping away the layers that mask my spirit. Or something like that. I haven’t read the texts in probably too long.
The tight wrapping on my arm and shoulder comes off last. I look away as they unravel the black cloth hiding the ugly pink flesh of my scarred skin. Looking at it fills me with a cold emptiness that never completely thaws.
Lowering myself into the hot water, I relish the warmth against my skin. The priestess presses a circular black injection pad into the crook of her elbow, and her eyelids flutter as the serum takes hold. As she enters beside me, her robes spill out like ink on the surface of the pool. I watch them float serenely across the water, mingling with her braids as she dribbles warm oil over my head and recites from the ancient texts.
I should be paying attention, repeating her words in my mind, taking them in and meditating on their meaning. I should be emptying my thoughts and emotions and focusing solely on the texts and the divine. Instead, my mind drifts back to my conversation with Dima, to the anger in his eyes and his clipped tone as he marched out of my room. I saw that very same anger in the half-blood when Jarek yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the other new servants.
Naï, stronger than anger. Hatred.
Oil drips slowly down my face like warm tears. Like the blood slipping off Jarek’s fingers and knife. The tears spilling over the half-blood’s cheeks. The screams and smoke and so many bodies, so many dead, because of my order. Because of me.
“Avra.”
The priestess’s voice rips me out of my thoughts. She watches me with her cold, piercing gaze, and I suppress a shiver. I missed a queue. I’m supposed to say something. What did she just say? My face warms and silence drips past us and everyone’s eyes settle on me. Expecting. Waiting.
I open my mouth and a low, distant boom echoes through the building. The priestess’s gaze snaps to somewhere behind me, a deep frown settling over her features. Did someone just enter the temple without permission? I turn around, eyeing the entryway.
Footsteps snap quickly down the hall, growing louder until someone emerges through the curtain and drops to a kneel, his left fist on his opposite shoulder and his eyes low.
But I don’t need to see his face to recognize my brother’s closest friend, and the third in command—Jarek.
“You do not belong here,” the priestess snaps, scowling deeply. “You’re interrupting a sacred ceremony and have entered the temple without—”
“Truly, I apologize,” Jarek says, cutting off the priestess. Her nostrils flare and she opens her mouth, but he beats her to it. “I would never have interrupted if it wasn’t such an urgent matter, but ken Avra must be escorted back to the palace immediately.”
The priestess starts to speak, but I lift a hand and she quiets. “What has happened?”
“It’s the people,” Jarek says grimly. “They’re rioting.”
After dressing again, I’ve taken all of three steps from the temple when the first earsplitting crack echoes through the air, momentarily splitting the sky with sickly green light. I stumble, and Jarek catches me, realizes his error, then quickly releases me and bows. In different circumstances, I might care about him touching me, but in this moment it’s the last thing on my mind.
My ears ring, and with it is an echo of something else—the low roar of angry voices carried through the air. Plumes of gray and greenish smoke rise high into the clear violet sky, turning it the ugly shade of an old bruise.
“We must keep moving, el Avra,” Jarek says stiffly. “I have strict orders to bring you indoors, where it’s safe.”
I almost start walking, but Jarek’s words stop me in mid-step. He looks physically pained when I come to a halt, but I ignore it. “Orders?” I say. “Whose orders? My brother’s?”
“I—sha, el Avra, but—”
“Am I not safe on my own grounds? You haven’t told me anything—how bad is this riot?”
Another crack rips through the air and with it comes a burst of hot air and sand. I turn away just in time to avoid a blast of dirt to my eyes. The crowd must be closer than I thought for the aftermath of a burst bomb to reach here.
Jarek coughs and spits sand mud—evidently he wasn’t as fortunate as I was. “They’re storming the gate,” he croaks. “They won’t breach it, not with the nanite coating, but the Commander believes it’s safest for you indoors.”
To be fair, Dima’s probably right—it would be safest for me away from the crowd and the violence. And yet, I hesitate—just because it’s the safest option doesn’t mean it’s the right one.
Strength isn’t cowering away in a protected room. Power isn’t letting my little brother order me around. Respect isn’t being escorted away in the middle of a ritual under somebody else’s orders.
I straighten my shoulders. “I want to speak to them.”
Jarek’s eyes widen. “Avra, I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“I don’t remember asking for your counsel,” I answer crisply. “I am their ruler. I should be the one addressing them, not my brother.”
Jarek opens his mouth to answer, but Dima’s voice calls out instead. “What is she still doing out here?”
I turn to face my brother and answer, but Dima stalks right up to Jarek without even glancing at me. My face floods with heat—how dare he ignore me?
“I told you to bring her indoors.” He grabs my arm. “I made it very clear she’s not safe out here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say loudly, wedging between them. “And release me immediately. You’ve no right to touch me.”
But Dima just shakes his head and motions to four guards standing sentry nearby. “You four, bring ken Avra inside immediately and make sure she doesn’t venture outside until I say otherwise.”
I gape. Who in Kala’s name does he think he is, touching me, ordering my guards around, and flat out attempting to overrule me? And in public, no less?
The guards step forward and my stomach sinks. They’re actually listening to him.
“Dima,” I snap, trying to yank out of his grip—and failing. “I’m not going indoors—I want to speak to them. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m their ruler, not you.”
“Sha,” my brother says stiffly. “That does seem to be the problem.”
Angry heat attacks my skin. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not going to speak to them.”
The heat prickles across my chest and sets a tremor to my hands. “I don’t take orders from you,” I say, barely controlling my tone. “I am Avra. My orders overrule—”
“They want you dead, Kora. If they see you, it’ll incite more anger, not less. I’m going to take my men out there before it gets any worse.”
His words are a kick to the gut and leave me breathless. They want me dead? “How can you be so sure?” My voice sounds weak. I hate it. “How do you know that’s what they want?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Dima nods at the guards. “Bring her inside immediately. I’m not going to tell you again.”
&n
bsp; The guards nod and step forward. I should argue. I should demand to see my people, to try to reason with them, to see what I can do to help.
But I don’t. I let them bring me inside with shame tattooed to my shoulders and stones gathering in my stomach.
I wish I could say otherwise, but Dima and Jarek weren’t exaggerating about the riot, or its cause.
I sit in the dining hall with Anja and Iro at my side before a hovering stone table piled high with untouched food.
We sit in silence as my city descends into chaos on six glass screens floating over the opposite wall, each with a different view of the riot. Men, women, and even some younger than me throw stones and angry words, their faces covered with cloths, helmets, or masks. Smoke obscures the screens and I dig my fingers into my knees as the audio rings loud and clear around me, echoing throughout the hall.
They’re chanting Dima’s name.
Everything is falling apart. My heart aches and my stomach churns as they press against the gates, throwing burst bombs and screaming obscenities at the armored guards just beyond the gate. My fingers tremble as they set buildings on fire and break glass storefronts.
Dima says they want me dead, and the more I watch, the more I’m starting to believe him.
Pain builds behind my eyes like an impending storm. A headache magnifying to full-out brainblaze levels, that in normal circumstances would leave me seeking darkness.
Unfortunately, I’ll never have normal circumstances again.
The soldiers watch me with undisguised disgust as I fill the water canteens. Jarek brought me here, to a large open room with mirrors on the walls, a deep red matted floor, and a row of long staffs on the far side of the wall—some sortuv training facility from the looks of it—and asked if I thought I could handle filling water bottles without causing trouble. I told him I’d do my very best, but we half-bloods have trouble comprehending more than the simplest tasks.