The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  “Blessed Sister,” he greets Sadra, eying her curiously. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you in the Lower City, of all places. Shouldn’t you be at the palace?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” Sadra replies. Her tone is light, but she moves to place herself between me and Lucoran. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “Fair.” Lucoran grins. He steps around Sadra and nods to me, placing his hand over his heart in the City’s gesture of greeting. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself properly. My name is Lucoran. Luca, to my friends.”

  “And are we your friends?”

  I raise my eyebrows, trying to ignore the flush rising in my cheeks. My mind and body are both buzzing with fear and relief, my emotions so scrambled that I can’t tell if I’m blushing from nerves or attraction or both.

  “Oh, definitely,” he says with a crooked smile. “There’s nothing like a little bloodshed to seal a friendship.”

  “Quite right,” Sadra agrees, then nudges me toward the mouth of the alleyway before turning back to Luca. “Truly, we are in your debt. But you must let us go and forget you ever saw us. I swear on my talisman, our lives depend on your silence. Can we trust you?”

  For a moment he looks like he wants to argue, but in the end he nods and steps back. The fox leaps into Luca’s arms and stares at us with an unsettlingly keen gaze, as if he, too, is wondering just what we’re up to. I lower my eyes and follow Sadra.

  At the mouth of the alley, I half turn, looking back at Luca. Our eyes meet one last time, and then Sadra pulls me away into the darkness.

  Soutenu

  I can hear music. It feels familiar and foreign all at once, filling my chest with an ache I don’t understand. A name tickles my mind and then slips away, leaving me reaching vainly after it. But it comes back again and again, each time inching a little closer to my grasping fingers until I catch it and hold it to myself-Tchaikovsky. I’m not sure what it means or why it’s so important, but I know that it is.

  I see faces. An old woman sits beside a child’s bed, humming a lullaby. A young woman sits beside a sleeping girl, whispering strange words. Another woman, slightly older, sits beside a hospital bed, weeping.

  I whimper, pained by the conflicting realities, until they coalesce into one.

  Emily doesn’t notice when I open my eyes; her face is pressed into the sheets of the hospital bed, her hands clasped over her head. Her shoulders shake with the violence of her grief. I want to comfort her, but when I reach for her my arm jerks against the padded cuff around my wrist.

  I can still hear the lullaby weaving in and out of the music coming from the speakers next to my bed—my cage. But the lullaby isn’t coming from Emily, or from the girl who stands behind her, watching me with wide, honey-colored eyes set in a dark face. Recognition flickers, then dies. If I knew her once, I’ve forgotten.

  I focus on the lullaby, trying to hum along: All that comes out is a low, tuneless moan.

  Emily raises her head, revealing a look of misery so intense it makes me cringe back into my pillows. The girl behind her reaches tentatively over Emily’s shoulder, holding her hand out to touch my face. I twist away with a sharp squeal, thrashing against my restraints. Something is wrong—the dark girl isn’t supposed to be here.

  I look back at Emily, hoping she’ll make the dark girl go away. But Emily is gone. In her place is a woman—a woman whose face terrifies me in its familiarity. It isn’t just her eyes or her mouth or the shape of her face, though they look just like my own—like Baba Nadia’s. It isn’t that. It’s the wild blankness that hides behind her eyes, even on good days. I thought I had forgotten. I thought I’d lost all memories of this woman. And yet, here she is.

  I scream.

  The dark girl withdraws her hand hastily and backs away into the corner. Her eyes dart around the room. Her shoulders quiver with tension. She’s afraid. She’s not supposed to be here.

  A high-pitched sound, almost a whistle, escapes from my lips. The woman’s hands are on my shoulders, pushing me into the pillows. She calls for help. The dark girl hugs herself as nurses rush in to sedate me. Something sharp pricks my arm.

  The music takes me back.

  Bayu, bayushki, bayu.

  * * *

  “Sasha?”

  I open my eyes slowly, afraid, as I so often am, of what I’ll find. I close them again after meeting Sadra’s gaze. Even in the pale pre-dawn light, I can see the pity and horror written all over her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Sadra says softly. “I’ve never—it’s not supposed to work like that.”

  I should ease her worry, tell her it’s alright, but it isn’t alright. I feel exposed, dirty, like a snail without its shell. When she looks at me now, she’ll see a raving, drooling beast. She’ll see something lower even than the mindless drone that the citizens of Kingsgarden think I am.

  “Sasha, was that…”

  “Yes.” I look away. “That was me—on the other side.”

  Sadra frowns. “Sasha, if that’s what’s waiting for you…do you really want to go back?”

  “It’s not—that’s not how it’s supposed to be.” I look down and pick at the blanket covering my legs. “It wasn’t always like that. It’s the Pall somehow, I know it is. Once it’s off, maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “I don’t know,” I lower myself back onto the pillows and stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

  “And who—” Sadra cuts herself off with a sharp jerk of her head. “Forgive me. It’s not my place.”

  “It’s alright,” I say dully. “You’re wondering who the others were.”

  Sadra nods and scoots closer on the bed. “The one who changed. I assumed she was your Emily. But then she became…someone else.”

  “My mother,” I whisper, and lower my eyes.

  “You told me she died,” Sadra presses, her face intent. “You said she had a disease of the mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “But haven’t you thought what that means?” Sadra’s voice is urgent now. “If what’s happening to you also happened to her…what if she wasn’t mad? What if she’s here?”

  “So what if she is?” I turn away, unable to look her in the eye. “What can I do about it?”

  Sadra sucks in a sharp breath. “You can find her! After you’re free of the Pall—”

  “If I can be freed from the Pall, I’m going home,” I snap. “What proof do we have that she’s here? And what if she is? She’ll have been here nearly fourteen years. You said thralls rarely last more than ten.”

  “Bard says time flows differently here,” Sadra argues, her voice rising. “It might not have been that long. She might have been freed. We can at least ask—”

  “No!”

  Sadra flinches at the anger in my tone and then stares at me, shaking her head in disbelief. “Sasha, it’s your mother.” She tries to reach for my hand, but I slap it away.

  “Emily is my mother.” Grief and longing squeeze my throat like a noose. “My mother…Lara…she died when I was four, and she was mad in that world. My grandmother had to explain to her who I was every time we visited the hospital. She didn’t know me. She didn’t love me. Emily does. She raised me, she and Baba Nadia. I have to go back to her if I can. I have to.”

  I put my hands over my face, fighting to contain the tide of despair and frustration surging through me.

  “Alright,” Sadra says after a minute and touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sasha. Hush, now. It’s alright. I’ll say no more about it.”

  I can see her through my fingers. I can tell there’s more she wants to say on the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she drops her eyes and holds her hands out, palms up, in a formal-looking gesture of supplication.

  “I owe you another apology, Sasha. What happened last night—it was stupid and reckless and entirely my fault. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  It takes me a moment to respond. It was stupid and reckle
ss…but it wasn’t entirely her fault. I didn’t want to go in the first place, and I’m not convinced that Maro’s information was worth the risk, but she can’t take all the blame. I could have said no. I could have obeyed Mother Wenla and gone to bed. But I didn’t.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, but it sounds a little stiff even to me.

  “Not entirely convincing, but I’ll take what I can get,” she says wryly, then sighs. “Lucoran’s presence complicates things.”

  “Who is he, exactly?” I ask. “I’ve seen him at the palace—and at Ismeni’s, too, I think.”

  “He’s the king’s bastard brother and the captain of the royal guard,” Sadra says. “He’s very close to King Miocostin and their sister, the Princess Arismendi. He’s not terribly active politically or socially, but there’s a good chance your paths will cross on the Terrace. I just pray that when they do, he doesn’t recognize you.”

  “He won’t,” I say firmly. “My mask will hold.”

  Sadra nods. “It must hold. And Sasha…I saw the way you looked at him. I know his attention must have felt good after so long with only my poor self to keep you company.” She smiles, but her eyes are dark with concern. “Some small part of you may want to let him see the truth. You can’t. You must stay strong and stay hidden. Believe me, I know what it’s like to live each day lying to someone you love. I don’t want that for you.”

  Heat rushes to my face. It’s a bit rich, I think, for her to lecture me after all the trouble she got us into. I was grateful for Luca’s help, of course—who wouldn’t be? And if, much later in the evening, after we were safe in bed, I remembered his hands on my waist or his quirky, crooked smile and gallows humor, I was able to push all that aside. Because I know—I know—that it wouldn’t matter, not if he knew the truth.

  She’s wrong: I don’t want him to see the real me. Would he touch me like that again, would he still smile at me, if he knew what I am?

  I know the answer already, and I don’t appreciate being reminded. And I certainly don’t need her flaunting her own freedom to love and be loved in the same breath.

  “He won’t see me,” I say evenly. I lie back and close my eyes. “I’m tired. I need to sleep more.”

  Sadra pats my knee and sighs. “So you do. I told Mother Wenla you were too upset to sleep last night. She’ll be along to give you another boost, and then we have to go. We’re already late, and Ismeni isn’t going to be happy about it.”

  I nod silently, my face turned toward the wall. I don’t hear her get up, only the soft tap of the door closing behind her.

  My lashes tremble against my cheeks, but no tear escapes.

  My lip lifts in a silent snarl as my fist hits the wall with a dull, empty thump.

  Go back? How can I, after tasting freedom for the first time in months? I can’t, I can’t…but I will, not because I have no choice but because I want to live long enough to make my choice count. This isn’t my moment, not yet. When it comes, I’ll know, and I’ll act. But for now, all I need to do is nothing at all.

  Dessous

  “Dove’s not doing too well.”

  I try to keep my tone mild. Sadra and I are in the garden, playing with Pretty Girl, the puppy, but we’ve been tense and awkward with each other in the weeks since our botched rebellion.

  We don’t talk about Bard’s plans for my escape, because that could all too easily lead to the many questions we failed to answer that night and the dangers that resulted. While I believe I have in fact forgiven her, I don’t want to dwell on it, either. She’s my only friend here, the one person in this world I really trust. I can’t afford to push her away.

  So we content ourselves with dancing and teaching Pretty Girl nonverbal commands—or trying to. I’ve never tried to train a dog before. Hell, before Pretty Girl I could count on one hand the number of times I’d even touched a dog. Even so, she has won me over completely in the weeks since Sadra brought her to me. I’d never experienced such unthinking, limitless devotion before. I didn’t know how healing it could be. I’m lucky to have her.

  “Can’t we do anything for her?” I ask, looking up from rubbing Pretty Girl’s belly. “Dove, I mean.”

  “Like what?” Sadra asks. “I don’t mean to be callous, Sasha, but there isn’t anything to be done.”

  “There aren’t medicines to make it easier? She’s in pain.”

  My throat constricts. Though she hides it well, I see the way Dove’s features tighten when she gets out of bed in the morning. No matter how skilled an actress she is, she can’t conceal the pallor that creeps into her face by the end of the day or the way the air whistles in her chest after climbing the stairs to our room.

  Sadra frowns. “There are, but under the medicine’s influence, she’d be of little use to Ismeni. Orean…he doesn’t keep anything that isn’t useful.”

  “He would kill her?”

  “Or let the House take care of it,” Sadra says. “Ismeni might argue, and she might win…but I don’t want to take that chance. Do you?”

  “I wish she would speak to me,” I say, tugging a stick out of Pretty Girl’s mouth. “She could if she wanted to, I’m sure of it.”

  “But she doesn’t want to,” Sadra reminds me. “If she wants our help, I think she knows by now that we would give it.”

  “Yes,” I sigh and get up, dusting off my skirts. “I should get back.”

  Sadra nods. “Be careful.”

  I signal Pretty Girl with a subtle flick of my hand, and for once she moves immediately to my side and follows as I weave through the garden paths. Dove is seated, as usual, on the lip of the fountain. I stand quietly at her side until she finally gets to her feet. Though her lips are pinched and white, I know better than to offer her any assistance. I keep my face smooth and blank, as she taught me to do. The ability to hide in plain sight is our only defense in a house full of enemies.

  Dove may soon die, but I won’t let that moment come any sooner by revealing our secret.

  The threat of discovery haunts me day and night. Sometimes, in that hazy place between sleeping and waking, I feel again the flesh of my back parting beneath the whip. I feel the blood trickle down my rib cage and pool in the small of my back.

  Other times, I feel strong arms around my waist and a flutter of warm breath on my cheek. I’ve learned to savor those moments, those memories, in the seconds before I’m reminded of the danger they represent. Though there’s been no sign of Luca, I know it’s only a matter of time until we cross paths again, either here or at the palace. But my mask will be perfect. I will be still. I will be silent. His eyes will pass over me.

  He won’t see.

  * * *

  “Please, just tell me what’s going on,” Emily begs. I can barely hear her through the door to my room.

  “I honestly don’t know what’s going on,” another woman says. “I wish I could tell you.”

  “But you know something,” Emily argues. “I can tell. You have to tell me what it is.”

  “I don’t—I think I know something, but even if I’m right, I don’t know what it means,” the other voice stammers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Emily pleads. “I have to know. Please, Carmen.”

  “Emily…”

  “What, do you think I’m going to sue you if you’re wrong? You should know better by now.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, but Emily…I really don’t know how it will help.”

  “But it won’t hurt,” Emily insists. “Carmen, you said you consider me a friend. If you really meant it—”

  “Of course I did,” the other voice—Carmen, whoever she is—says quickly. “Okay. If I’m right…it looks like Sasha’s not always conscious.”

  “Well, obviously,” Emily says with a huff. “She hasn’t been herself since—”

  “I don’t mean lucid,” Carmen cuts in. “I mean conscious—as opposed to unconscious, as if she were under anesthesia, or if she were brain dead. Even
when she’s awake, she’s not completely here. It’s like she’s flickering in and out, but too quickly for us to see just by looking at her. I think that’s what’s causing her neurological symptoms, but I don’t know why, and I can’t prove that it’s even happening. I’m sorry.”

  I stop paying attention.

  If I’m not always here, where am I?

  * * *

  I open my eyes, my body buzzing with awareness. I don’t need Pretty Girl’s soft growl to tell me that there’s a stranger in our room. Before I can do more than shift under the covers, a hard, calloused hand closes over my mouth. An arm like a steel band circles my waist, jerking me out of the bed. Pretty Girl barks once and then yelps before subsiding into silence.

  “Don’t make a sound,” a voice whispers in my ear. His grip tightens on my jaw. “You will come with me, and you will do so quietly, or I will kill you.”

  This is it—the House has found me—but how? My mask was perfect, I know it was. And why now, weeks after Cimari’s attempt to expose me? Come to that, why snatch me from my bed in the middle of the night? The House of Light and Shadow is more than powerful enough to take me by less dramatic means. What is going on?

  My attacker half-drags, half-carries me backward out of the room, down the stairs, and through the gardens without giving me a chance to find my feet, much less struggle. He stays in the shadows—easily done, as very little moonlight makes it into the ravine. As we approach the wall of the mountain, I tense, thinking he’ll finally stop. He doesn’t. He ducks under a bush and pulls me after him. I close my eyes against the stabbing branches and leaves of the bush and wince as my feet and calves scrape against cold, wet stone.

  When I open my eyes, I panic. What did he do to me? He’s blinded me somehow! I can’t see a thing, not even the faintest suggestion of form. Suddenly the air seems thicker, almost solid, and too big to enter my lungs. I tug frantically at the hand on my mouth. It only tightens in response.

  “I’ll let you go in a moment,” my captor growls. “Don’t try to run. You’ll only hurt yourself in these tunnels. I think you won’t scream—you have more to lose than I do. Nod if you understand.”