The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  I nod jerkily, straining against the weight of his hand, and gasp as my lips come free. I cough against the sudden influx of air. In my terror, it doesn’t occur to me to pretend. I have to speak.

  “Who—who are you?”

  “You wound me,” the voice says in a normal tone, and now I recognize it. “I thought I’d made more of an impression.”

  “Luca.” How did he find me? How—and what—does he know about me? I could swear I haven’t seen him since the night in the alley. “Please, you don’t understand—”

  “You’re cursed right, I don’t understand,” Luca snaps. “And you’d best have an excellent explanation, because right now the only reason I can see for posing as a thrall in a Terrace household is to get close to a Council member—or the king.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say again. “I am a thrall.”

  “You must think I’m very stupid,” Luca says with a snort. “Or perhaps you’re not that bright yourself. May I remind you that thralls can’t speak?”

  “No—you don’t—thralls aren’t what you think they are.” I clutch at my head. How can I explain—and how can I make him believe? “They didn’t make me. They stole me. Please—please—don’t let them find me. They’ll take me away—they’ll hurt me.”

  “Who?” Luca demands. “What are you babbling about?”

  I take a breath and let it out slowly, willing myself to be calm. “The House of Light and Shadow. They’ve convinced everyone that they made thralls—created them, like dolls—but they lied. Do you hear me? They lied.”

  “Well,” Luca says after a pause. “I have to commend your imagination, at least. That is the most—”

  He cuts off abruptly at the sound of small rocks tumbling against each other. A voice—Sadra’s!—curses, softly at first and then more loudly. A soft yip that sounds like a laugh answers her.

  “Kirit,” Luca growls. “It took you long enough.”

  Something small and soft passes around my ankles. I jump and trip over a loose stone. Only Luca’s tight grip on my arm keeps me upright.

  “Sasha?”

  “Here!” I cry. “I’m over here—with Luca.”

  Luca sighs irritably but doesn’t relax his hold on me. Finally, Sadra’s groping hands find me and—after poking me in the eye—settle on my shoulders.

  “Lucoran,” she says. “What are you doing creeping around and abducting people in the middle of the night?”

  “What are you doing aiding a spy and possible assassin?” he retorts. “I let you go, and I didn’t question you. And this is what you’ve been up to?”

  “What we’re up to has nothing to do with you,” Sadra says. “And Sasha is nothing of the sort, as I’m sure she’s told you by now.”

  “I did,” I confirm. “He doesn’t believe me.”

  “Understandable, though disappointing.” Sadra pats my shoulder. To Luca, she says, “You’re a Lightcrafter, aren’t you? Can’t you feel the Light coming off her?”

  A pause.

  “It must be coming from an amulet,” Luca says, but there’s the slightest hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “You had your hands all over me,” I huff. “Where do you think I’m hiding it? Up my—”

  Sadra raises her voice, drowning me out. “There is no amulet.”

  “You can’t seriously be asking me to believe this nonsense,” Luca cries. “I don’t know how a Temple initiate got caught up in this, but—”

  “I didn’t get caught up in anything,” she says. “The Temple recruited me for this. Would you believe Mother Wenla’s word over mine? It could be arranged, though I doubt she’d be pleased to be woken at this hour.”

  “The Temple Mother—”

  “We need Bard,” I murmur to Sadra. “He’s not going to believe anything we say until he sees proof.”

  Sadra sighs. “I think you’re right.” To Luca, she says, “Would you consent to take a walk with us or are you going to ruin everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve?”

  “Take a walk where?” Luca asks suspiciously.

  “To see someone who can give you proof that what Sasha says is true,” Sadra says. “Will you come?”

  “Please,” I add softly, shivering against the fears that seem so much closer in the dark.

  At first, he doesn’t say anything. I hold my breath, only letting it out when I hear him release his. The fox yips, as if answering a question I can’t hear.

  “Alright,” he says. “But if I’m not completely satisfied that you’re telling the truth, I go straight to the king and then to the House Premier.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I assure you,” Sadra says. “Sasha, you should go back to bed before you’re missed.”

  “No.” Luca’s hand tightens on my arm. “She comes with us.”

  “That’s really not a good idea,” Sadra argues. “If they notice she’s gone—”

  “I don’t care,” Luca snaps. “Neither of you is leaving my sight until I’m sure you’re not going to run off and kill someone to cover your tracks.”

  “Charming,” Sadra mutters to me. “I can see why you were so taken with him.”

  My voice gets stuck on a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with fear. Don’t be a baby, I tell myself. I should have known to expect this sort of reaction.

  Of course he doesn’t believe me. And his assumption is a logical one. But he’ll see. He’ll see I’m telling the truth, and then—I stop myself. And then what? He’ll carry me off into the sunset? No. The best I can hope for is that he won’t turn me over to the House of Light and Shadow.

  Luca jerks on my arm and I stumble forward, tripping on the uneven floor of the tunnel. I was stupid, so stupid, to build up this vision of him in my head, an exaggerated image of chivalry and safety based on one kind act. I hadn’t thought it would do any harm. I thought it was nothing more than a story to comfort myself at night. But now, confronted with the hard and downright hostile reality of my fairy tale prince, I see how a dream can hurt.

  * * *

  We stumble through the darkness, Luca dragging on my right arm and Sadra clinging to my left. Every so often the fox—Kirit, Luca called him—brushes by, tripping me up or nearly stopping my heart, or both. At any moment, Ismeni could discover my empty bed and ruin everything. The minute the news reaches Cimari’s ears, she’ll know that she was right about me and she’ll hunt me down—and then what?

  Sadra always refuses to talk about what exactly the House does with “defective” thralls, but the look that invariably appears on her face when I bring it up is enough to discourage further questions.

  But now all the questions I never asked seem to spill out of my head and into my belly, where they writhe like angry snakes. It’s worse, I think, to be frightened without knowing what to be frightened of.

  By the time the first sliver of light appears, my whole body aches with physical and mental strain.

  “Wait,” Sadra says as we approach a thin crack in the tunnel wall. “I’ll fetch him here.”

  “I told you, neither of you is—”

  “What do you think will happen if you drag us both out there like this?” Sadra snaps. “Even at this hour of the night, there are folk who will ask questions. We don’t have time for questions. You keep Sasha with you, and I’ll bring Bard. Where are we?”

  “Near the guildhall, in the courtyard of a private home.”

  “Your private home, I presume,” Sadra says. She doesn’t wait for him to reply. “Bard’s quarters aren’t far from here. I’ll be back before the next bell.”

  Sadra moves around me and trips, cursing as she falls onto her hands and knees. Luca lets me go, as if by reflex, and I kneel to help her. As I crouch beside her, she slips something hard and cold into my hand and whispers in my ear, almost too quickly for me to understand-“If I’m not back in time, or if he tries to move you, stick him with that and run for the Temple.”

  I curl my fingers carefully around the—I hope—freshly
poisoned hairpin and help Sadra to her feet before curling my arms around myself to hide my hands.

  “I’ll see you soon.” Sadra hugs me briefly. To Luca, she says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’ll give you the same advice,” Luca says, a bite to his tone. “And a chaperone to make sure you follow it. Kirit will accompany you.”

  A sliver of light illuminates Sadra’s wry smile as she bends to offer the fox her fingers to sniff. “I welcome the company, if not the sentiment.”

  Darkness envelops us once more as Sadra slips through the crack, her body filling the space completely. She grunts softly as she wiggles through, and I wonder how Luca manages to fit. I reach out with cautious fingers and find the wall, following it down until I hit the floor. I settle myself on the uneven ground and draw my knees to my chest. The stone is hard and cold, but I sigh anyway, tipping my head back.

  My eyes drift shut of their own accord, as if my body is simply unwilling to expend any more energy on worry or fear. It’s a peculiar feeling—depressing, certainly, but at the same time oddly pleasant. It strikes me that perhaps dying might feel a little like this—like release.

  That wouldn’t be so bad. The thought so disturbs me that I pinch myself awake and climb back to my feet.

  “How did you find me?” I ask, more from a desire to break the silence than out of real curiosity.

  “Kirit,” he replies. “You can hide your face, but you can’t hide your scent.”

  “Can you…can you talk to him?” I ask incredulously.

  “Of course,” he replies, sounding surprised and a little annoyed, like it’s something obvious. “I’m a Beastspeaker.”

  I glare at him. “I liked you a lot better when you weren’t being a horse’s ass.”

  “Well, I liked you a lot better when you weren’t an assassin,” he retorts.

  “I’m not,” I cry. “I’ve told you what I am, and Sadra has confirmed it. I know you don’t honestly think I’m an assassin, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Luca makes a noise of frustration. “I want to believe you. Of course I want to believe I didn’t make a mistake—that I didn’t commit treason—by letting you go that night. But it’s ludicrous, what you’re telling me.”

  “Is it?” I ask softly. “Is it really so hard to believe? Thralls breathe, like you. We eat, like you. We bleed, like you. Most of us can’t speak, but plenty of people can’t, whether from illness or injury. Is the thought that thralls suffer a kind of illness so outlandish?” I shake my head. “No, not an illness, an…an affliction. Because it didn’t just happen, Luca. It was done to us.”

  I hesitate, then reach out and take his hand. Blushing at my boldness, I guide his fingers beneath the edge of my nightdress and onto the rough, lumpy scar tissue at my hip. His hand jerks slightly in surprise, then settles, his fingertips exploring the edges of the brand. I tense, though his touch is in no way sexual or even aggressive. It’s just that I avoid touching the brand or even looking at it if I can, and exposing it to Luca’s examination, even in the dark, makes my stomach turn.

  “Do you think it’s a fake?” I ask. “Do you think I did that to myself?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Luca says.

  I release his hand and turn away.

  “No,” I say bitterly. “You don’t want to think. It’s staring you right in the face and you just don’t want to see it.”

  He doesn’t answer, and I don’t press him. If he’s not going to say something along the lines of I’m sorry, I’m a huge idiot, of course you’re right, I don’t want him to say anything. I wish I could tell myself that we only met once, that he doesn’t owe me anything—but he does, just like every other person in this stupid city. They all owe it to me to open their damn eyes and see me.

  It’s a relief when the opening in the rock goes dark once more, signaling Sadra and Bard’s arrival. Sadra sidles up to me immediately, her body tense.

  “Bard’s angry,” she murmurs. “I had to tell him about that night. He wants to send me back to the Temple.”

  “He can’t,” I whisper, aghast. “Can he?”

  “No,” she says. “There’s no way they can place someone else in the household at this point without raising suspicions. But he’s absolutely furious with both of us.”

  “Sasha,” Bard says sharply, interrupting our whispered conference. “Get back to bed. I’ll deal with the two of you later.”

  Luca protests, “She’s not going anywhere until—”

  “She’s going,” Bard says, his voice hard. “Right now. Every minute of delay increases the danger you’ve put them in. Are you so confident in your conclusions that you would risk having their blood on your hands? If there is even the slightest doubt in your mind, you must let them go.”

  I see the silhouette of Luca’s head jerk downward in a stiff, unwilling nod.

  “Very well,” he says. “Kirit, show them the way and then wait for me.”

  Kirit nips my ankle, making me jump, and yips for us to follow. We comply readily, eager to escape Bard’s disapproval. Stubbed toes and scraped knees are a small price to pay to delay whatever punishment Bard has in mind.

  When we finally slither out from under the bushes in Ismeni’s garden, I half expect to be seized by a mob of House mages. But there’s nothing. The garden is as still and silent as ever, sleeping in the shadow of the mountain. We leave Kirit crouched amid the branches and flit through pools of darkness like wraiths, fear keeping our steps light and quick. When we part ways in the garden, Sadra opens her mouth to speak, then shakes her head and squeezes my shoulder before disappearing into the dark.

  Pretty Girl is waiting at the door, as if she knew I was coming—or as if she’s been waiting there the whole time I was gone. I bend to greet her before she can start whining, then straighten and ease the door closed. Dove’s gaze spears me as I turn back, her eyes glittering in a sliver of moonlight. For once, I stare back instead of lowering my lashes in deference.

  Say something, I urge her silently. Scold me, yell at me. Tell me how stupid and careless and immature I was to put my own desires ahead of our safety. But she merely rolls over to face the wall, turning her back on me and my foolishness.

  Effacé

  I run through the darkened garden, dodging the shadows that reach for me with clawed hands. Climbing roses leap from their trellises and wind around my ankles, their thorns digging into my skin and tearing it away as they drag me down. I writhe in the loose gravel of the path, stones and thorns alike cutting me open.

  Footsteps crunch somewhere behind me, filling my chest with a wild, blind horror. I lunge against my bonds, heedless of the threads of blood streaming down my body. But the roses hold me fast, pinning me to the ground.

  I watch with helpless terror as Cimari approaches with slow, measured steps.

  “I see you,” she whispers. “I see you.”

  Cimari pulls something from behind her and I lose what little air is left in my lungs, thinking it’s a whip. But it’s not—it’s worse than that. It’s a blade, silver and shining in the moonlight. The tip glitters unnaturally as Cimari lays it against my abdomen. I suck in my belly, cringing away from the bite of metal as I hadn’t bothered to do with the thorns, but I can’t escape it.

  Cimari presses gently, drawing a single drop of blood. She moves the tip and draws another. And another.

  Then she looks at me.

  “I see you,” she says… and slides the blade between my ribs.

  * * *

  I wake, gasping for breath, in a cold sweat made even colder by a slight breeze drifting from the open window. I draw my blanket closer around me and focus on the warmth of Pretty Girl’s weight across my knees.

  A dream. It was just a dream.

  The thought gives me comfort, but only briefly. It really was just a dream, wasn’t it? When was the last time I had one of those? When was the last time I closed my eyes and saw anything but cold metal instruments and pitying faces around my be
d? I’m not sure I ever have, not since my arrival here. What could it mean?

  I reach down and drag Pretty Girl’s growing bulk into my arms, ignoring her grunt of protest. But despite Pretty Girl’s heat against my chest and the blanket around my shoulders, I can’t seem to get warm. I spend the rest of the night shivering, my eyes wide open against the dark things that wait for me—both in this world and the other.

  * * *

  “The sun shines on you.”

  Sadra’s smile is tentative as she greets Ismeni at the breakfast table, but it widens at Ismeni’s cordial response. She and Ismeni have developed, if not a friendship, at least a fragile bond rooted in mutual disgust for Orean’s brutish ways. Sadra takes pains to keep Ismeni under the impression that she’s spying on Orean for the Temple, and Ismeni doesn’t pry. In fact, she seems to enjoy the idea that someone’s pulling one over on him, even if it isn’t her. She knows—everyone knows—that Orean is aware of her affair with the king, and I think it annoys her that her husband couldn’t care less.

  “Will you be joining us at the palace this evening, Sadra?” Ismeni asks, leaning around Orean, who continues to eat his breakfast in silence.

  “Yes and no,” Sadra replies. “I’ll be performing for the king’s equinox celebrations.”

  “How lovely.” Ismeni beckons a nearby thrall. “Tea, husband?”

  “Thank you, no,” Orean says, politely enough. But he ruins it by adding, “You will attend me in my chambers when I return from Council. I will expect you at midday, no later. And remember to review the menu for tomorrow evening’s banquet with the cook, if you please.”

  His tone chills me. Not that it’s malicious—it’s anything but, in fact. He might as well be talking about a cow or a pig…or me. That’s how he sees Ismeni: livestock. He needs her only to produce an heir, and, in spite of my circumstances, I sometimes worry for my mistress.

  As soon as Orean leaves, I let my eyes drift slowly to Ismeni’s pale, stiff face. Sadra told me—and I believe her—that Orean doesn’t keep anything that isn’t useful to him. What will happen to Ismeni if she doesn’t give Orean his heir soon?