by Hannah West
I started toward the stairs, but as soon as I crossed the threshold from the armory to the run-down edifice, a harsh chorus of whispers cut around me, like a thousand knives whirring past my temples. They overlapped, growing more sinister with every step I took toward the light.
The Holies will not come.
I am the only one here to help you.
You are making a mistake.
You cannot win without me.
You need me.
You are mine.
The dark declarations intensified until wordless shrieks of suffering and wails of mourning wove through them like bloodred strands in a black tapestry.
Cold dread filled the pit of my stomach. If half of the Fallen had already come to our world, the other two would be even more desperate to join them. I could feel that powerful desperation as the spirit of Themera crashed over me like a frozen river.
Whom would Robivoros try to claim?
One of my friends? Devorian?
Devorian. If Ambrosine had been vulnerable to Nexantius due to her vanity, did that mean Devorian’s proclivity for overindulgence made him vulnerable to Robivoros?
I clutched Sev’s effigy, feeling the fading warmth of his closeness. I reached the stairs and took them three at a time until the whispers fell silent.
The fresh air and the presence of the two guards calmed me as I rounded the derelict Edifice of the Holies. Commander Larsio sat on the base of a broken column at the entrance, making a charcoal sketch of what appeared to be a trap.
“How did she do?” I asked, slipping the effigy into my pocket. “She won’t slice any of her own soldiers’ heads off, will she?”
He chuckled. “Her mother always said that Kromanos had gifted her determination and spirit. I think that will have to suffice.”
“Thank you for helping us, Commander,” I said. “I know it must not be easy to plan an attack against your own men.”
“The ones who will heed Navara’s call have been listening all along. They should know a true leader from a tyrant.”
“I hope so,” I said, and picked my way over the cracked steps to the edifice entrance.
Pale gold sunlight fell through the high windows onto a lush, crumbling landscape of ruin and rebirth. Navara knelt at the altar at the center of the room, whispering prayers. She had positioned clay bowls in a tidy line at the feet of the Holy deities.
She rose and turned. “It’s ready for you,” she said.
I wove through the path of weeds toward the imposing marble structure, crossing through shafts of sunlight where dust motes swirled like stardust.
Each bowl contained something representing a Holy. For Honesty, the burning tip of a candle. For Moderation, salt. Humility, dirt. Lovingkindness, a feather. Diligence, seeds. Generosity, wine. Loyalty, stone. And Courage, metal.
There was also a knife, laid suggestively in the foreground. Of course—most magic rituals required pain and blood.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“Draw blood and drip it into the bowl of the Holy you wish to call down,” Navara said. “You’re supposed to pray, but…you should just do what feels right. Don’t be disingenuous.”
I held in a snort. “Which one should I ask?”
“Lekdytos, Humility, is the foil of Nexantius,” she said. “But Atrelius is the warrior god, and his sword and shield are said to have powers of their own. Honestly, you should follow your instinct. I’ll leave you to make your choice. The commander and I are going to the city.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I asked, hoping she would say yes. I believed the Fallen were real and present, but it was harder to believe the Holies would come at our beck and call. I didn’t want to disappoint Navara or, admittedly, myself.
“I mean no offense, but I’m sure my people are a bit miffed about their ruined crops. They might not want to join the movement if they know you’re—”
“Understandable.” I waved her off, but my inner guilt was more difficult to dismiss. “Good luck, Navara.”
She smiled warmly. “Blessings, Glisette.”
When she was gone, I looked up at the once-vibrant blue ceiling, painted with stars, curved into a dome like the sky above.
My heart felt as hollow as this forsaken temple, but I nudged my doubt aside and dropped to my knees. Looking up into the hard face of Atrelius, Holy of Courage, I decided he was the most rational choice.
I took up the knife. It would be foolish to slit my palm days before a battle. Then again, this seemed to be some version of a sacrifice. I had to actually sacrifice something.
Bracing myself, I rested the sharp point against my palm and dug in. A hiss of pain escaped through my teeth. A jewel-red stripe intersected the lines running across my flesh, and I closed my fist to trap the pooling blood.
“Atrelius,” I whispered. “God of Courage, or whatever you are. Ancient elicromancer, it seems. I, um…I offer myself as a vessel. The Fallen have begun to invade our world. We need your wrath and your might to drive them out, to banish them to darkness as you did once before.”
I let my bleeding hand drift toward the clay bowl holding the piece of metal, a steel chape from the tip of a scabbard. But as the blood drops grew ripe and ready to fall, I jerked my hand toward the bowl holding the feather. A few stray drops landed on the steel chape, but I let the rest fall before Eulippa.
Lovingkindness, the foil of Cruelty—the foil of Themera.
“Eulippa, I call you down in Perennia’s honor,” I said, my voice rising, strengthening in conviction. “She was the kindest soul I knew in this world. And she deserves to be avenged. Rip your enemy out of Ambrosine so that I can destroy her for the evils she has committed.”
My blood began to pool at the bottom of the bowl, staining the gray-brown feather. The birds outside whistled their tunes as the streaks of sunlight grew warmer, brighter. I laughed in disbelief.
Eulippa had heard me.
But clouds passed over the sun, stealing the warmth from the crown of my head and the tops of my shoulders. A cool wind blew, and with it came distant whispers that raised gooseflesh on my arms.
“Are you here, Eulippa?” I whispered as I looked up at the statue.
I felt the silence like the drop of a mighty hammer.
THIRTY-SIX
AMBROSINE
THREE DAYS AGO
DEATH had stolen the color in my sister’s cheeks, but her beauty endured.
Her honeyed tresses had been gingerly arranged to cascade over her shoulders. The butter-yellow dress I had commissioned from the clothier for her welcome banquet softened the scarlet of her painted lips.
Even under the sunrays falling through the windows in the throne room, Perennia’s hand felt as cold as her engraved stone bed. I had the instinct to try to warm her fingers with my own, just like when she used to tiptoe to my bedchamber, begging to climb into bed with her eldest sister. I had promised I would protect her from night beasties, such as the old hag who hid in the wardrobe, waiting to steal your youth and beauty while you slept. She would cut you and bleed you until she had enough blood to paint her skin. If the hag succeeded, she would host a ball and prance around in your clothes. You would then wake up as an old hag and haunt wardrobes until you managed to steal another girl’s youth and beauty.
I told Perennia I would stay awake and protect her from danger. But I never told her the danger wasn’t real, that I had invented the story myself. Glisette persistently tried to convince young Perennia it was fake. Perennia wanted to believe her, and in the daytime she always did.
But at night, she believed me.
She had outgrown her fear of the hag years ago. But sometimes I thought back to that story and wished I had been the kind of sister who lied to protect, never to harm.
The hand that rested over Perennia’s curled into a fist.
Glisette. Always making herself the arbiter of right and wrong, the voice of reason when a plot had gone too far. Glisette and I used to a
gree on almost everything, but there was an invisible line I could not cross without crossing her.
I never thought that line would become a rift so vast and jagged.
I never thought I would order her execution.
I told Sev to do it as quickly and painlessly as possible. My plan to frame Glisette for Perennia’s death was not hatched out of spite; I needed to explain Navara’s disappearance. Glisette would be at peace and would not know or care that I had made her a villain in the eyes of my subjects.
I had no choice. After last night, nothing would ever be the same. Glisette would have run back to the Realm Alliance, roaring that Perennia’s death was my fault. They would believe her. They would challenge me, wage war against me. I would have to waste my mortal army and my resources fighting. I would lose Devorian. The cost of letting Glisette return and tell her story was simply too high.
Now I would get to tell Devorian my story.
Perennia’s rose elicrin stone lay lightless in my hand. Beyond her Solacer gift, she had never developed much of an affinity for elicromancy. Her power was distinct enough that she had received her elicrin stone after only a few years, despite not mastering many spells. Glisette and I had always competed with each other, driving us to diligence in our magical studies. But Perennia was excellent at only one thing when it came to elicromancy: taking away sorrow when it became too heavy to bear.
A tear slid down my cheek and splashed on the cloudy pink surface of her stone. Ironically, I needed her gift now more than ever.
“Shall I plan the ceremony while you rest, Your Majesty?” Damiatta asked. “I can order her favorite flowers.”
“I’ve sent for my brother. When he arrives, we will hold the funeral.”
“But that could take—”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” I snapped. “She’s been embalmed. We will wait.”
“I’ll ask the undertaker to move her back to the mortuary until he arrives.”
“No,” I barked. “Leave her.”
Damiatta bowed her head. A crew of men entered the throne room, carrying the glass case I had requested. It was from the beloved late queen’s funeral. The people had wanted to bid the queen farewell one last time, but Myron wanted no one to touch her. So a glass case with gold scrollwork accents had been constructed for a procession and viewing.
The princess’s tutor had told me this. She had brought up the dead queen at every opportunity. Now she was dead too.
“It’s perfect,” I said, ushering the men into the throne room. They placed the prism over Perennia’s body.
“Leave me,” I said when they finished, and everyone, even Damiatta, hurried out.
But I was never truly alone.
The silver mask appeared in the reflected light glancing off the glass. The comforting touch of a disembodied hand alighted on my shoulder.
For so long I have only known the tedium of eternal darkness, Nexantius said. Now, through you, I feel pain again. I remember what it means to be alive.
You’re the only one who understands me, I told him. I wish you could step outside of my mind and the mirrors. I wish you could stand beside me, rule beside me instead of through me.
I know that you are grieving. But you should know that there is a way.
A way for what? I asked, a ray of hope puncturing the darkness like a bold new star burning to life. Nexantius was my only true ally, the being who saw every corner of my soul and still embraced me.
A way for me to become my own man, to take on my own vessel, he replied. But all of the Fallen must return to this world first. That is the only way we will have the power we need to emerge from our human vessels. We are waiting for Silimos to break down Valory’s will. And while we wait, we must continue searching for willing and worthy vessels for Robivoros and Themera. Devorian is a man of appetite, is he not?
I suppose…I answered, cautious. Why?
Robivoros would delight to have such a vessel.
Isn’t he more monster than man? I asked. I agreed that Themera and Glisette would make a good match. But I’ve seen the paintings of Robivoros, and—
They’re exaggerated. Nexantius brushed me off. Meant to stoke fear. Besides, it’s only temporary. When we have each gained enough power through our hosts, we can choose any flesh vessels we desire, even those without the capacity for magic or extraordinary power. You could choose one for me. You enjoy the huntsman’s appearance. Imagine me wearing his form, ruling this world at your side. We would be loved and admired by all. Now that Navara and your sisters are gone, you will be the fairest creature alive, renowned in every corner of the world.
“Your Majesty?” Damiatta asked, cutting through the magnificent fantasy Nexantius had spun for me.
“What?” I snapped.
“The huntsman has returned.”
“Oh.” I laid a hand over the place where I’d felt the ghostly touch on the shoulder of my black mourning gown.
Severo Segona would not dare return if he had failed to do what I asked.
That meant Glisette was dead. An unexpected loneliness burrowed in my gut, but I clung to Nexantius’s promise that he and I could be together, beside each other. “Send him in.”
Damiatta bowed her head and swung open one of the double doors to admit Severo.
A bloody game bag swung in his grip. Strange, gleeful horror overcame me. I had nearly forgotten I had asked him for Navara’s lungs and liver as proof of her death. I had uttered this demand in a frenzy, realizing I could hardly trust someone so principled—even under threat of harm to his loved ones—not to release the targets to the wild and tell me he had done the deed.
“The proof you requested,” he growled.
“Damiatta, wrap this up and bring it to my private chamber before he makes a mess,” I said.
Damiatta did as I asked, unburdening him of the bloody sack and hurrying away.
“And the hair?” I demanded.
Jaw set, the huntsman strode forward and offered me a lock of golden hair, most assuredly ripped out by the roots, judging by the flecks of blood and flesh.
My own sister, gone, just like the other.
“Am I dismissed?” he asked, glaring at me.
“Yes.” I waved him off. “Go kill something worthy of a funereal feast.”
As soon as he departed, I ascended to my private chamber. The game bag waited on the hearth stones, wrapped in a second, cleaner sack. Damiatta had left, and there were no signs of any servants but for a tea tray left on my vanity.
I deposited the lock of hair beside it and took a breath, steeling myself to cross the room and glimpse inside the sack. Once there, I hunkered down on the hearth stones and turned my face away, peeking out of the corner of my eye.
A bloody mess of organs filled the sack.
I could have started a fire in the hearth and burned them. But morbid curiosity got the better of me. I slipped a hand inside the sack, grasping at the feel and texture of the spongy remains. I lifted the liver with fingers covered in dark-brownish red.
Thinking of the old hag, I laughed. I knew I looked mad, but I felt the opposite—enlightened, invigorated. Perhaps Perennia’s death had ruined my mind, or maybe ordering the execution of my other sister had dealt the last blow to my sanity. Maybe it was the being I had allowed inside me who was making me mad, tearing me apart.
But the glee persisted through the madness. Navara was dead.
“You specimen of beauty,” I whispered. “Now you are finished.”
Cackling, I dropped the liver and smeared the blood on my face. Her youth I didn’t need, but beauty I would take. It would compound mine, multiply it until mortals could not bear to regard me.
Someone knocked. It had to be Damiatta—she was the only one who would dare disturb me. “Your Majesty, your brother has arrived,” she said. “I took him to the throne room to visit your sister’s remains.”
“He’s here already? How?” I asked. What had I done? Now I would have to win him over with a
tale of innocence wearing traces of the princess’s blood on my flesh.
“Yes. Now you can give her a timely farewell.”
I stood and peered at the mirror, at the creature I had become. “I’ll be down shortly,” I called.
All evening Devorian wept at Perennia’s side while I made funeral arrangements for the morrow. He didn’t seem to note Myron’s absence, and he certainly didn’t catch any cues about the high priest’s death or Commander Larsio’s recent resignation. He didn’t care whether Perennia’s death was my fault or Glisette’s. He brushed off my account of the story and wept, wept until he sank to the floor and didn’t rise.
After a good while of trying to comfort him, I showed him his chamber and retreated for the night. Devorian didn’t want to hear my defense, at least not right now.
Before falling into a fitful night’s sleep, I removed the portal box from my drawer to look in on Valory. My nerves had become more agitated than a nest of hissing snakes, and seeing her held captive while Silimos tightened her clutches would soothe them.
I tied a cloth around the lower half of my face to subdue the smell before unlatching the box. Since it had been created for Valory, it would only open to the last place she had wished to go.
A forest overgrown with gray lichen and oozing fungi lay ahead of me. The sulfuric, moldy stocking scent had become so overwhelming that I would soon need to stop visiting altogether.
But there she was—trapped at the center of the pit, cocooned in flossy strands of ooze. Her flesh resembled mold at the bottom of a forgotten cup of tea. Her limbs were twisted, arthritic, pinned close to her body. Roots splayed out from her mouth and grew from her fingers like unpared nails. Even more so than before, I had to strain by the light of my elicrin stone to see where she ended and the growth began.