Grace and Fury

by Tracy Banghart

  Nomi’s eyes widened. There was so much about this world she didn’t know.

  Rosario noticed Nomi’s look and nudged the girl on her other side, smirking, her good humor apparently restored. “Did we all look that stunned when we were chosen?”

  Embarrassed, Nomi dropped her gaze to her plate. She stabbed at a piece of melon.

  “Don’t worry, flower,” Rosario said, her honeyed voice teasing. “You’ve got time to get used to it here. It’s mostly dress fittings and dance lessons until the Heir’s birthday. That’s when the fun really begins. I wonder which of you he’ll choose to celebrate with?”

  “Maybe all three?” someone else suggested, laughing.

  Cassia sipped her espresso, a little smirk on her face. Maris looked stony-eyed out to sea.

  “Why does the fun begin on his birthday?” Nomi asked.

  Cassia arched a brow. “Don’t you know? That’s when our positions become official. There’s a ceremony and everything. The Heir won’t consummate”—she said the word with a purr—“his union with us until then. The girl he chooses to entertain him that night is the one to have first chance at becoming Head Grace. Just look at Ines. She was one of the Superior’s very first Graces.”

  Nomi’s face flamed. She knew if Serina were in her place, she’d be competing with Cassia to have the Heir’s first male child and become his Head Grace. But the thought made Nomi’s stomach turn. Still, she saw value in becoming Head Grace. When the Superior died, Ines would have the comfort of knowing her son would decide her fate.

  Rosario leaned forward. “Ines isn’t just the Heir’s mother; she’s the second-born son’s as well. She’s a legend.”

  Cassia’s eyes lost focus as she, presumably, imagined a similar life for herself.

  “Do Graces raise their own children?” Nomi asked. She couldn’t remember anything from Serina’s lessons about it; then again, she’d never paid close attention. She’d always been elbow-deep in laundry water or scalding herself on the stove.

  Rosario looked at her like she’d sprouted another head. “Raise children? Do you see any children here?”

  Cassia rolled her eyes. “That’s what nursemaids are for.”

  Nomi had never felt a desire to have children, and yet a strange surge of grief still gripped her at the thought that if she did, they would be taken from her. Did Ines ever look at her sons across a crowded ballroom and yearn for those lost moments? Those lost years?

  “I heard Malachi will be hosting a masquerade ball for his birthday,” Rosario shared.

  The girl across from her grinned eagerly. “Really? A masquerade? Those are always delicious.”

  The Graces reminisced about other masquerade balls, other Grace ceremonies, but Nomi stared at her plate of fruit and pastries, lost in thought. Serina filled her mind, every worry and fear leading back to her. Was she okay? Was she hurting? Did she hate Nomi for stealing the book?

  Nomi swallowed around the lump in her throat. Of course she did. All of this was Nomi’s fault.

  Ines stepped out onto the balcony. “Good morning, Graces,” she said. Her gold-flecked dress sparkled in the late-morning sunlight. “The Superior has requested the presence of Eva, Aster, and Rosario at luncheon. There’s a concert this evening for a delegation from Azura. His Eminence requests only his most senior Graces to attend. Ysabel, you are to play the harp.” Down the table, a woman in her thirties with coppery-red hair nodded. Ines turned to Nomi and the other new Graces. “The Heir has requested an audience with each of you today,” she said. “While you’re waiting your turn, I’d like you to go through your gowns with your handmaidens and set aside the ones that need altering.” She eyed each girl in turn, ending with Nomi. “You’re first.”

  Nomi gulped down the piece of bread caught in her throat. “It will be my pleasure,” she managed.

  She didn’t miss Cassia’s look of envy as she stood up and followed Ines inside.

  Ines took Nomi down a long tile corridor to an ornate wooden door carved with crashing waves and leaping fish. “Don’t ask about your sister,” she said before opening the door. “It will not please him.”

  Nomi nodded, but felt a flare of defiance. “So what should I do?”

  Ines looked at her as if the answer were obvious. “You do whatever he says.”

  She opened the door and nudged Nomi into Malachi’s rooms.

  The large sitting area flowed to a wide balcony. Through an open doorway to her right, she caught sight of a massive bed. Heat crept up her cheeks.

  “Good afternoon, Nomi,” the Heir said, rising from one of two leather chairs arranged in the center of the room. His tall muscled frame filled the space. He wasn’t close enough to touch her, and still she felt his presence pushing toward her, stealing all the air from the room.

  “Good afternoon, Your Eminence,” she echoed, with a wobbly curtsy. Her hands clenched the fabric of her dress too tightly. Just seeing him brought her fury to the surface. His ancestors were the reason women weren’t allowed to read to begin with. His father was the reason Serina wasn’t here. He was the reason Nomi was.

  Malachi said nothing, and Nomi stared at the ankles of his linen pants with a fixed attention so he wouldn’t see the hatred in her eyes. How could she hope to please this man, even to find out what had happened to Serina? She could barely look at him.

  “I’m sure you didn’t expect to be chosen,” he said finally.

  Nomi swallowed back a bitter laugh. “No, I didn’t.” She added, “Your Eminence,” a beat too late.

  “You do not seem pleased with your good fortune,” he rebuked her, crossing his arms over his chest. A whisper of fear unfurled in Nomi’s belly. She couldn’t afford defiance now. She belonged to him; he could do whatever he wanted to her.

  He could hurt her.

  “I am honored to be your Grace,” she said, somehow managing to say the words without grimacing. “I—I only wish my sister could be here. She knows what’s expected of a Grace. I—I do not.”

  At the mention of Serina, Malachi turned away abruptly, stalking to the terrace. After a moment, Nomi followed him uncertainly. Malachi stared over the railing at Bellaqua’s stone bridges and gondolas. It was uncanny, the way the Superior’s palace perched between the city’s canals and the sea, like a great ship, isolated and forbidding.

  “I will be riding out to inspect Bellaqua’s troops tomorrow,” Malachi announced. “I will be gone for two days. Shortly after I return, my Graces will attend the Premio Belaria with me. You are behind the others in your training and appearance. I expect you to catch up in time for the event, when you will appear publicly at my side for the first time.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence,” Nomi replied, caught between disappointment and relief. His trip would mean more time without news of Serina, and no opportunity to persuade him to share what he knew. But it also meant time free of his unnerving presence. It meant she would have time to make a plan. Hopefully one she could live with.

  “What is the Premio Belaria?” she ventured. If it were some kind of ball, she was doomed. She couldn’t learn to dance properly in two days.

  “It is a horse race,” he said shortly. “The most famous in Viridia.”

  “Ah,” she said faintly. No dancing, at least.

  “Do you ride?” he asked.

  “Horses?” she asked, surprised.

  He nodded.

  “I’ve never had call to, Your Eminence,” Nomi replied. Silly question, she thought. Only the wealthiest wives and daughters were taught to ride.

  The tips of his ears turned pink. “Of course.”

  “Do you enjoy riding?” she asked, for once managing to be polite.

  “I do,” the Heir replied. His voice softened slightly as he added, “My horse, Bodi, has been with me since he was foaled. I broke him myself.”

  Nomi didn’t know what he meant by that, but the word broke sent a thread of ice down her spine. “‘A man’s worth can be found in the value he places on both ma
n and beast.’”

  “What did you say?” Malachi shifted toward her, his eyes narrowing.

  Nomi’s breath caught in her throat. Stupid. It was a line from Renzo’s book of legends: from the story of a poor farmer who impresses a rich merchant when he sells a precious heirloom not to feed himself but to feed his horse. Malachi must have recognized it. She scrambled to cover her misstep. “It’s—it’s something my brother used to say a lot, Your Eminence,” she said. “Have I displeased you in mentioning it?”

  Malachi shook his head. “It’s from a book I read a long time ago. That line, in particular, struck me.”

  Nomi knew that in her place, Serina would turn the conversation back to more superficial topics. But she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue. “My brother liked that story. He said it was about valuing all life equally. Man, beast… woman.” She met his eyes.

  “Do you think I value only my own life?” He was so close to her that his breath feathered against her face.

  “I wouldn’t presume,” Nomi replied. She’d tried to make her tone innocuous, but from the way Malachi’s eyes narrowed, it was obvious she’d failed.

  “You…” he said, stepping a little closer. Too close. “You have a good deal to learn.”

  Nomi shivered under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were a cinnamon brown, with amber flecks that sparkled in the light. She wished she could break free, run, hide away from the unnamed feelings suddenly coursing through her.

  He raised a hand, and she stumbled back a step.

  But he didn’t strike her, only gestured toward the door. “You may go.”

  Nomi curtsied and crossed the room on watery legs, still feeling under threat.

  NINE

  SERINA

  INSTEAD OF TAKING the prisoners to cells, as Serina expected, the guards led them outside. Then they opened the prison gates with a tooth-rattling shriek. The sun had fallen to just above the horizon, swollen and sickly red. For the first time since she’d left Lanos, Serina longed for its cold, jagged mountains and smokestacked factories.

  She spotted Jacana’s small form and headed to her side. “Where are they taking us?”

  Jacana wrapped her arms around herself. “One of the guards said this building is just for processing. That we live… out there.” She nodded toward the desolate rock outside the gate.

  “Out there?” Serina echoed, horrified. The Hotel, the Cave… were those other prison buildings? Beyond the fences and barbed wire?

  Anika came up beside them. “What’d you do to end up here?” Her gaze raked Serina from head to foot. “They’ll eat you alive.”

  Serina knew she looked different from the others—her skin buffed and polished, her body soft. “I stole something,” she said calmly, burying her fear so deep it didn’t show. “Something from the palace.” No one needed to know the truth.

  Anika narrowed her eyes.

  “What did you do?” Serina asked.

  “I killed someone,” Anika said, her voice hard. But a shadow passed across her face so fleeting Serina almost missed it.

  A guard by the gate yelled, “Everyone assigned to the Hotel, come forward.”

  Anika left the compound with four other women.

  Serina watched until the girl was out of sight. “Where’d they put you?” she asked Jacana, who still huddled nearby.

  “The Cave,” Jacana said to her toes.

  “Me too,” Serina said, relieved. “At least we’ll be in the same place.”

  Jacana straightened a little. Serina wondered what had brought her here. What crime could this tiny, terrified girl possibly have committed?

  “The Southern Cliffs, come forward!” the guard yelled. Another group of women disappeared.

  Then, “The Cave!”

  They followed two other girls through the tall gate. In whispers, the girls introduced themselves as Gia and Theodora. The guard pointed to a couple of women waiting outside, backlit by the last dregs of the setting sun. “Follow them,” he said.

  Somehow, Serina found herself leading the way through the gate.

  The women watched them approach. The shorter of the two was maybe forty, with a wide plain face, sun-reddened skin, and heavy brows. “I’m Cliff,” she said when Serina and the others reached her. “This is Oracle. She’s in charge of the Cave.”

  Serina’s breath hitched in her throat. A fellow prisoner was in charge? A woman? How was that possible?

  Oracle regarded the small group of girls in silence. One of her eyes was brown, the other a strange, filmy white. She was a little younger than Cliff but no less intimidating.

  “Follow close. We won’t wait for you,” Oracle said. Without another word, she turned and led them down a rocky trail along the cliffs. They followed in the footsteps of the other groups, the distant flicker of torchlight guiding them. Oracle hiked quickly, Cliff following with ease.

  Serina tripped, her flimsy shoes catching against the rough volcanic rock. “Shouldn’t there be a guard with us?” Serina hazarded. “Isn’t there—”

  Cliff’s barking laughter cut her off.

  “Please,” Gia mumbled, swiping at the sweat coating her forehead, “could we have a sip of water? They didn’t give us any food, or—”

  “You won’t want to eat before,” Cliff said. “Probably not after either.”

  Before? After? What was about to happen?

  Serina trudged next to Jacana, her mouth dry with fear. They followed the winking torches, down along the headland to the beaches and behind a broken building with the sprawling memory of grandeur. Lights glowed from glassless windows. A cracked marble fountain stood in the center of the courtyard, the blind eyes of its female dancers staring toward the volcano.

  Cliff nodded toward the building. “Hotel Misery.”

  A shiver crawled down Serina’s spine.

  The rumble of voices rose over the roar of waves. Serina could at last see their destination, out beyond the hotel. A massive semicircle of stone, ridged into seats, faced a stage with a tall building behind it. Lava rock spilled over one entire side. A half-destroyed amphitheater.

  Serina thought of the hours she’d spent practicing the harp, waiting for the day when she’d perform in front of the Heir. She couldn’t guess what was performed on this stage.

  More than a hundred women filled the stone benches or sat on the swaths of frozen lava. Serina stared at face after face, but she didn’t see a single smile. Her chest tightened.

  Oracle led them to a section of seating in the center, where twenty or thirty women clustered. Then she went on alone, gripping a couple of women by the shoulder as she made her way to the stage. Around its edge, ten women gradually assembled. Oracle stood next to a tall woman with a strip of bright red hair down the center of her head, the rest of her skull shaved clean.

  Serina stared fixedly at the woman’s head. In Lanos, girls were not permitted to wear their hair shorter than their shoulders, but most preferred to keep it waist length or longer, as a point of pride. Such a stupid thing to think about now. Serina swallowed.

  Guards crowded onto the balcony of the building behind the stage. She couldn’t tell how many, as some disappeared into the shadows, but she suspected there were forty or so, far fewer than the women filling the amphitheater.

  Cliff eyed Serina and the other new girls, her thick brows drawing low over her eyes. “Whatever happens, don’t cry,” she ordered. “The guards will watch for weakness. They’ll use it to their advantage. Don’t give them any power over you. Do you hear me?”

  “What exactly is happening?” Serina asked, trying to keep her voice steady. The tension in the air pressed against her, making it hard to breathe.

  Cliff stared down at the stage. “The first time, it is better not to be prepared.”

  Commander Ricci stepped onto the stage. The amphitheater quieted in an instant. The man’s body language was relaxed, authoritative, but his hand didn’t leave his firearm. All along the balcony above him, guards drew their w
eapons and pointed them into the crowd.

  “Fighters, take your positions,” Ricci ordered.

  Fighters?

  Five women stepped onto the stage, including the woman with the red hair who’d been talking to Oracle. Commander Ricci disappeared into a stairwell that led to the balcony.

  No one moved. No one spoke.

  Serina watched with wide eyes, uncomprehending.

  A few moments later, Ricci reappeared at the edge of the balcony. He was holding a wooden crate. He let it drop as he shouted, “Begin!” When it hit the ground, the wood cracked apart with a sound like an ax hewing firewood. A coil of thick black tubing flopped out. Only… it wasn’t tubing. It didn’t stop moving, slowly uncurling over the shattered scraps of wood. Serina gaped as the snake’s head lifted, testing the air.

  One of the girls tried to stomp on it, but she missed its head. It twisted and struck her on the ankle. She screamed. Time seemed to slow. One second. Two seconds. She crumpled, her leg swollen, as the rest of her twitched sickeningly. Another woman grabbed the tail of the snake and swung its head down against the hard floor, again and again, until it hung limp and unmoving from her hands. The other women met in the center of the stage, their fists and knees and elbows flying.

  Serina’s heart went into freefall. Women didn’t fight. Ever. Not against men, not against each other. Violence always earned the strictest punishment. Serina knew stories of women who’d tried to defend themselves—a distant cousin who’d fought back against an abusive husband, a girl in the textile factory who’d slapped a man when he tried to kiss her. Those women had been severely punished. Flogged, imprisoned. Sent to Mount Ruin or a prison like it. How was this allowed in the very place that was meant to contain such behavior?

  Another woman groaned as someone kicked her in the knee. Serina closed her eyes. She covered her ears. She curled into herself. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

  The thuds and shouts were muffled, the darkness behind her closed eyes absolute. For a few minutes, she let herself recede. She lived in the thud of her heartbeat and shush of her breath.