The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  It almost makes me feel guilty, or at least sorry for Ismeni, as it’s my fault she’s staying. But then, it’s only fitting that she won’t get her freedom until I get mine—and that she’s suffering for it right along with me.

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep that night. Every time I close my eyes, fearful thoughts crowd my mind, clamoring for attention. So many things could go wrong… What if this “agent” is caught by the House of Light and Shadow? Or what if he falls and breaks his leg and doesn’t get here in time to take me away from all this and Orean gives us to a brothel or to the House instead? What if, what if… Sadra was right. No good comes from “what if.”

  It’s a relief when Pretty Girl’s bark jerks me out of my fretful dreams. I bolt upright and scramble out of bed almost before I realize what I’m doing. Pretty Girl sits on the floor next to Dove’s bed, her nose resting just close enough to touch Dove’s hand. I drop to my knees beside her, my hands fluttering over Dove’s body just as they did once before—but that was a different life, a different body. Baba Nadia is dead…and Dove, I think, isn’t far behind.

  I lunge backward as a terrible sound is ripped from Dove’s throat. My heart pounds. I’ve never heard a sound like that from anyone, much less from Dove. Something awful must be happening for her to throw away her mask like that: She’s dying.

  What can I do? If Ismeni knew, would she send for a Healer? I don’t have to ask myself if it’s too dangerous to try to communicate with her, even nonverbally. And Bard would go absolutely out of his mind if he knew I was even considering it. But I can’t just stand by and watch Dove die.

  I grab Dove’s walking stick and head for Ismeni’s rooms, fully aware that I’m about to do something monumentally stupid.

  “What—what—” Ismeni shoots upright and flails about in a panic when I shake her awake. “Cygnet! What are you—”

  I shove the walking stick into her hands and wait with my heart in my throat. Thank goodness, she grasps the essentials immediately and jumps out of bed, dragging me along behind her. She dashes for the door without even bothering with a shawl.

  When we reach Dove, we find her gasping, her breath rattling in her throat. Pretty Girl whines piteously at her feet, pawing at the blanket and nosing Dove’s hand. Ismeni strides across the room and throws a ball of light against the wall, where it clings like a glowing lump of dough. I stand as close as I can manage without blowing my already mostly blown cover.

  Bozhe, I hope this was worth it.

  “Hold on just a little longer, my Dove,” Ismeni whispers, rubbing Dove’s hand. “Don’t go. We still need you, little Cygnet and I. Dove. Dove? Look at me.”

  “Pa—Pahhhh.”

  Ismeni freezes, her eyes wide and fixed on Dove’s mouth.

  My feet carry me forward almost against my will. I drop to my knees next to my mistress, putting my hand over hers and Dove’s. I don’t dare look at Ismeni, but I feel her gaze on me. With an effort I can feel through my fingers, Dove raises her eyes to mine.

  “Pater noster, qui es..in caelis…”

  Ismeni gasps and wrenches her hand away, scrambling backward. I lean closer to Dove.

  “Sanctificetur…Nomen Tuum…”

  The language is unfamiliar, but the rhythm of the prayer tugs at some of my earliest memories. Otche Nash, suschey na nebesakh…Our Father, who art in Heaven…

  The words come readily to my lips, and I open my mouth to release them. But I stop myself, pinned by Dove’s suddenly blazing eyes. Her fingers brush against my wrist in an echo of her old pinches.

  And then she’s gone.

  I take a shuddering breath, trying not to let it turn into a sob. A barely audible whimper escapes and I dart a glance at Ismeni. If she heard, she gives no sign of it. She stares at Dove with a mixture of grief and terror so intense it transforms her whole face. She doesn’t move. She barely breathes.

  The door slams open. Ismeni jerks and lurches gracelessly to her feet as Cimari hurries in, accompanied by her brother and her betrothed, the Premier. I rise too and drift backward until my back is against the wall. Sweat springs to my skin, cold and clammy.

  Don’t notice me. Please don’t notice me.

  “It’s dead?” Orean asks. He doesn’t even look at Dove.

  Ismeni nods dazedly. The Premier moves forward and lifts his hands over Dove’s body. He holds that pose for a moment, and I get the feeling he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it. When he turns around, Dove turns with him, floating in the air. Her arms and legs dangle carelessly, like those of a discarded doll. One of her feet drags along the floor.

  Heat builds, slowly replacing the cold pit in my belly. But I don’t dare turn away or show any sign that it bothers me. Instead, I try to focus on Pretty Girl’s warm weight against my leg and the firm coolness of the wall at my back. Anything but the scene before me.

  “Was there anything…unusual?” the Premier asks. “About the thrall’s death?”

  At this, Ismeni looks sharply at her sister-in-law and visibly pulls herself together. “No, nothing,” she says smoothly. “She passed quietly, thanks be.”

  “And how did you happen to be present for the event?” the Premier asks next.

  “She was old,” Ismeni says, “and very unwell. I’ve been monitoring her closely.”

  “My sister cares deeply for her thralls,” Cimari explains with the barest hint of a smirk.

  “Don’t, Cimari,” Ismeni says, closing her eyes. “Not now.”

  “There was nothing at all out of the ordinary?” the Premier presses. “Think carefully. The passing of a thrall can be…dangerous.”

  “There was nothing.”

  “What about the other one?” Cimari asks eagerly and I force myself to keep my eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

  “Nothing,” Ismeni says firmly. “Are you quite finished? I’m very tired.”

  “The other must be cleansed, good lady,” the Premier says.

  My heart pounds. Cleansed? I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be anything good—not if Cimari is gunning for it.

  “Out of the question,” Ismeni says. “Cygnet stays with me.”

  “My dear,” Orean says, attempting a conciliatory tone. “The taint—”

  “No.”

  Orean’s fists clench, but the Premier lays a hand on his arm and bows slightly. “I see no immediate danger,” he says. “However, you must be vigilant. Do not hesitate to call upon me at the slightest indication of…”

  “Of what, exactly?” Ismeni asks, her eyes flashing.

  “Anything out of the ordinary, my lady,” the Premier finishes blandly.

  “Certainly,” Ismeni says, then gestures to the door with a motion that’s just a hair less graceful than usual. “But for now, it’s past time we were all in bed.”

  Ismeni kicks everyone out, somehow contriving to seem gracious and elegant while she does it. After closing the door on Cimari’s suspicious, discontented face, she turns and leans against the wall with closed eyes.

  I don’t move. My legs feel rubbery, and my heart hammers against my ribcage like it’s trying to escape. I wonder frantically if I should just come clean and beg her not to tell-Cimari’s not through with us, I know it.

  “Good night, Cygnet,” Ismeni sighs and turns without looking at me. “Try to get some sleep.”

  And then she leaves.

  My knees give out and I slump to the floor, shaking. I can’t breathe. My head spins. I feel like I’m dying. What the hell just happened? Why is Ismeni covering for me? Maybe she’s not covering—maybe she’s in shock and has already repressed the whole thing? Or maybe she’ll wake up in the morning and tell Cimari what really happened.

  Quivering, I push myself to my feet. I have to find Sadra. I have to tell her what happened so she can get word to Bard. He’d want to know about this, I’m sure of it. I stagger toward the door only to find it swinging toward my face; I reel backward, my legs collapsing under me. />
  “Sorry, sorry!” Sadra helps me to my feet and guides me to the bed. “I’ve been lurking around the corner waiting for everyone to clear out.”

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “Orean,” she says, shrugging. Then she looks down. “I’m so sorry about Dove, Sasha, truly.”

  “It’s worse than that,” I say grimly, and tell her everything.

  “Shadow and blight,” Sadra curses. “You—”

  A sound, slight but distinct, makes us both freeze. I grab hold of Sadra’s hand and hiss, “Hide!”

  “Where?” she asks, her fingers tight on mine.

  “Under the bed,” I whisper. “There isn’t anywhere else.”

  Sadra drops immediately and slithers under the bed, twitching the end of her shawl out of sight just in time. I stand by the bed, my eyes focused on nothing. For once, it takes no effort. Though I can hear the door open and shut, I can’t see anything—the hall lights have been extinguished.

  Light blossoms suddenly, blinding me. Tears gather in my eyes, and I blink furiously in reflex. But I don’t let my gaze focus on the figure before me. I know who it is and why she’s here and I’m not going to give myself away. I’m not going to give her a damned thing.

  “Speak,” she coos, moving closer. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Bullshit. I don’t react but thank every lucky star in the sky that it’s Cimari in front of me and not Ismeni. If it were my mistress, I might be tempted. But Cimari is such a snake I probably wouldn’t believe her even if she were telling the truth.

  “I suspect that you’re…special,” Cimari says, her voice warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “I can’t be sure unless you tell me, of course. I’m betrothed to a very powerful man who can help you, but he won’t unless I can show him that you’re—different. Speak, please. Let me help you.”

  She stands very close, her face just inches from mine. My teeth grind against each other. My hands begin to shake. I hide them in the skirts of my nightdress. This unnatural sweetness won’t last, I know. Given a choice between the carrot and the stick, Cimari has a well-documented preference for the latter, at least in my case.

  Though I saw it coming, the sting of her hand connecting with my face is shocking. My head snaps to the side, and I stagger slightly. My heart races, and so does my mind. I don’t know what to do—what a thrall would do. Stand and wait for another blow? Cringe away? I’ve only ever seen Orean hit thralls, and they just picked themselves up and continued with whatever task they weren’t completing to Orean’s satisfaction. But I have no task.

  Cimari saves me from having to make a decision by yanking me back by the hair. She hits me again, this time in the gut. I double over, my mouth opening and closing uselessly. All the air in my lungs is gone, and my paralyzed diaphragm can’t replace it. While I choke, Cimari shoves me to the ground and kicks me squarely in the ribs, sending a bolt of blinding pain shooting through my body. It almost makes me grateful that she’s already knocked the wind out of me—if I had any breath, I’m sure I would scream.

  A tiny snarl drags me out of my cloud of pain. Pretty Girl stands at my head, growling and snapping at Cimari. I raise a hand and try to pull her back, but the pain in my ribs is excruciating. I try again, and this time I manage to get my fingers around Pretty Girl’s collar. Cimari’s eyes lock on my hand, her eyes narrowing, and I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  “I wonder…” Cimari hums and taps a finger against her lips. “I suppose I already knew your own pain wouldn’t be sufficient inducement…yes, I do wonder.”

  Before I can wrap my mind around her meaning, Cimari’s foot lashes out and catches Pretty Girl under the belly, sending her sprawling and spinning across the floor. Pretty Girl wails, a hair-raisingly human sound of fear and pain. Every atom of my being screams at me to get up, save her, shield her from the evil creature that’s hurting her. But I don’t. And, like Bard, I hate myself for it.

  But it’s not only my life that hangs in the balance. Sadra, Bard, Mother Wenla…all of them depend on my silence, and if I betray them, I also betray the imprisoned souls who need their help.

  Cimari stamps her foot. “I’m right about you, I know I am. They all think I’m just a stupid little girl, but I’m right.”

  The world seems to tilt as Cimari strides after Pretty Girl and places a small, dainty foot on her neck. My eyes close in denial, but I force them open again and look into Pretty Girl’s eyes as she cries and struggles to break free.

  “Speak,” Cimari says. “One word, and she lives. Surely you can manage that much?”

  For a moment, I think I will. I think I’m lost. But a hard, invisible band closes around my throat. In the end, it’s not the desire to protect my friends that catches the words in my chest, but the desire to save my own skin. It’s natural, I suppose. It’s primal…it’s disgusting. And it’s ironic—that this need to survive should make me want nothing more than to die.

  With a dull crunch and a crack like the snap of a dry branch, Pretty Girl’s neck breaks under Cimari’s foot. Pretty Girl spasms once, then lies still, her gangly little legs limp and disarrayed. With barely a glance at the crumpled form under her feet, Cimari steps over Pretty Girl’s body and returns to my side.

  “I know what you are,” Cimari snarls, jerking my head back by the hair. “Abomination. Don’t think this is over.”

  My head slams into the ground and explodes with pain. I don’t see her leave, but Cimari must be gone because now Sadra is kneeling beside me. Her hands flit from my arm to my head to my hip and back again. Longing for my grandmother’s gentle touch blazes almost as hot as the agony in my head and ribs.

  “Babulya…” I whisper dazedly. “Bol’no.”

  It hurts.

  “What? What are you saying? Sasha?”

  It takes me a minute to find the right words. “My…the bones, there…I think they’re broken.”

  “Your ribs,” Sadra whispers. “They could be. But you have to get up. We have to go.”

  “Go?” I ask. “But…what about…Bard…the buyer…”

  “Never mind that,” Sadra says, getting her hands under my shoulders. “Up, now.” I bite back a cry. “I know, love, I’m so sorry. But you have to. It’s going to hurt a lot worse if Cimari gets you alone again. Come on, push with your legs…”

  With Sadra’s help, I lurch to my feet. I’m afraid I might throw up. But I can’t, because I think it would kill me. Cottony pressure builds in my ears. Sadra is urging me along, but her words are drowned out by an ominous ringing. My head feels heavy. Everything hurts so badly. I want to stop and sit down, but that would hurt too. It might even hurt more.

  I don’t know how we get out of the house. I can’t think of anything but putting one foot in front of the other. I’m only vaguely aware of Sadra guiding me along, keeping up a steady flow of encouraging nonsense. Everything in the world seems to have disappeared—everything except for the pain. It’s only the slightest lessening of agony that tells me we’ve stopped. We’re in the garden, just outside the tunnel’s entrance. I stare back at the house and blink once, twice, three times.

  “She’ll never touch you again,” Sadra says, misinterpreting the look. “Never.”

  “No,” I agree. “And if she tries…”

  I meet Sadra’s eyes, my head suddenly perfectly clear.

  “I’ll kill her.”

  III

  Act Three: Rallentando

  “It’s a wild place, and very unsafe. And where are we, really—there or here?”

  -Richard Adams

  Assemblé

  “Sasha! Spokoyno, Sashka. Ty v bezopasnosti.”

  I swim through the darkness, casting around for the voice calling to me. The voice tells me I’m safe, but I don’t know. I don’t feel safe.

  “Baba Nadia?” I ask uncertainly. “Gde ty?”

  Where is she? Why can’t I find her? Something plucks at my memory—something important—but terrible—something about Baba Nadia. She’s
gone, she’s…

  She’s dead.

  * * *

  “Niet!”

  “Hush, Sasha.” I flinch away from the figure standing over me, silhouetted in the lamplight. “It’s alright now. You’re alright.”

  “Bard,” I breathe. “What happened—how did I—”

  “Kirit found you after Sadra left you in the tunnel,” Bard says. “He fetched Lucoran. You’re in his house.”

  “I don’t hurt anymore. I’m—” I freeze under the sheet covering me, suddenly noticing the way it slides over my skin. “I’m naked.”

  “You were wounded,” Bard explains. “It was necessary. But the Healer was female, if that’s any consolation. And I’ve brought you some clothes.” He gestures to a pile of neatly folded cloth beside the bed.

  “What do you mean, I was wounded?” I ask. “Was it my head? I don’t remember anything after—after Cimari.”

  “You did indeed sustain a head injury in addition to several broken ribs,” Bard says gravely. “But I was referring to the wound on your hip.”

  “A wound.” I blink, nonplussed. “But what…?”

  “Sadra cut out your brand,” he explains. “So that you couldn’t be tracked by the House of Light and Shadow or recognized as a thrall.”

  “I don’t understand.” I clutch the blankets to my bare chest and squirm upright so I can look him in the face. “How does cutting out my brand help? Is it the brand that holds the Pall?”

  “You recall that your brand serves as the focal point for your energy, gathering and concentrating it so that it can be used by others.” At my nod, he continues, “Without that brand, your energy is released in a form too diffuse to be recognized or used by a Lightcrafter.”

  “But the Pall is still on me.” I look at him for confirmation. “It’s still stealing my life away and just—leaking it out into the world?”