The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  With effort, I swallow a protest. The king is already frustrated by our multiple interruptions, and I don’t want to antagonize him further. All I can do is grind my teeth as the Premier moves on with his questioning.

  “Over the course of the thrall’s service in your household, did you ever witness anything to suggest that it possessed fully human capabilities?”

  Ismeni frowns. “I’m not sure I understand you, my lord. Cygnet was clever, certainly—”

  “I speak of the hallmarks of humanity, my lady. For instance, compassion or understanding. Something beyond mere intelligence, which all animals possess to some degree.”

  Again Ismeni hesitates, and this time her eyes come to rest not on the Truthseer but on me. “I don’t know.”

  I nearly choke in my effort to remain silent. How can she not know? She heard Dove speak in her last moments before death. She covered for me then. Why won’t she acknowledge it now?

  “Answer me this, then,” the Premier says calmly enough, though by his narrowed eyes I’m sure he expected a straight no. “Based on your extensive experience with this thrall, do you believe that it is the equal of a human being born and bred in Kingsgarden, to be accorded the same rights and consideration due to all citizens of this realm?” He pauses. “In short, do you believe it is a real person?”

  Ismeni closes her eyes for several long moments. My heart leaps into my throat with a rush of wild, unexpected longing. Regardless of her answer’s impact on the outcome of the hearing, I want her to say yes. I want—I’ve always wanted—her to acknowledge that I was more than a pet. I want to know that her apparent affection for me was something deeper, something real.

  Ismeni opens her eyes and says, “No.”

  The tiniest of gasps escapes my lips, belying the pain that slams into me like a physical blow. Sadra lets go of my hand and slips her arm around my shoulder, squeezing tightly. I brace myself with my hands on my knees, my head bowed. My insides seem to be crumbling, dry and gritty as desert sand.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the Premier says, oblivious to my struggle. “And now, my lords, may I present my wife, the lady Cimari, who also possesses first-hand knowledge of the thrall’s behavior.”

  I close my eyes so I don’t have to see Cimari’s face. But I can’t block out her voice, full of self-important complacency.

  “The lady Ismeni has indicated that you had this thrall whipped,” the Premier says. “Tell us why.”

  “It was in need of discipline,” Cimari says easily. “My good sister was quite lax with all the creatures under her care. What’s more, I suspected something was amiss with the thrall. The whipping was in response to unprovoked aggression.”

  At that, I jerk my head up and stare at her. Aggression? I wrack my brain, trying to remember something, anything, that could have been construed as aggression. What is she talking about?

  “Could you be more specific?”

  Cimari nods. “It charged me and knocked a piece of food out of my hand.”

  My mouth drops open. I did not charge her. I ran into her, yes, but it was an accident! Rather, I didn’t mean to do it—it was no accident. Unprovoked… yes, it certainly was that. I grind my teeth.

  The Truthseer makes a small noise, drawing an inquiring look from the King.

  “Does she lie?” the king asks.

  The Truthseer hesitates. “No, but…No, my lord.”

  The king nods. “Then proceed.”

  “And when the thrall was punished, did it exhibit any sign of remorse?” the Premier asks.

  “None,” Cimari says. “What’s more, it appeared to feel very little pain, if any. It is my belief that thralls are wholly insensate, closer to beasts than they are to you and me.”

  My eyes fly to Luca, whose jaw clenches in anger. Even the king frowns in contempt. Hope stirs in my chest. As close as he is to Luca, he has to have spent more than enough time around Kirit to know that the little fox is anything but unfeeling or unintelligent. But the king says nothing, allowing the Premier to continue with his questions.

  “Insensate,” the Premier, repeats, raising his voice over my garbled cry of protest. “Do you mean they are impervious only to physical pain?”

  “No, my lord. I have observed this thrall on many occasions and made particular note of its behavior,” Cimari says, her face perfectly bland and innocent. “Behavior which can only be described as utterly impassive, regardless of any stimulus, positive or negative. It appears not to distinguish between kindness and cruelty. For instance, upon witnessing the death of a puppy—a puppy which had been its close companion for many weeks—the thrall showed no sign of distress or, as my husband has said, understanding.”

  At this, my self-control snaps and I leap to my feet.

  “How dare you,” I snarl. “How dare you speak of Pretty Girl as if you didn’t kill her with your own hands, you filthy, evil—”

  “Silence,” the king barks. “My lady, has a lie been spoken?”

  The Truthseer stares hard at Cimari with a deep frown, dislike and suspicion written in every line of her face.

  “No, my king,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Very well, then,” the king says.

  Fury pulses in my veins. I open my mouth to argue, regardless of the consequences, but Sadra yanks me back into my seat.

  “You’re not helping,” she hisses. “Shut up!”

  “But she—”

  “She’s nothing,” Sadra growls. “A bloodsucking flea on the back of a rabid dog, nothing more.”

  The king looks at me with a sort of guarded sympathy in his eyes. “I must say, the descriptions presented seem at odds with what we can see for ourselves. How do you explain this?”

  “The thrall is a mimic, my king,” the Premier says. “Nothing more. A skilled mimic, I grant you, but then, we know from the lady Ismeni’s testimony that the creature is clever enough for its kind. Thralls can be trained, as everyone knows. My…ah, colleagues at the Temple of Graces have had several months in which to produce something that might pass as human to undiscerning or unsuspecting eyes. Such misinformation, if allowed to take root, could seriously undermine the foundation of our House and, by extension, the kingdom itself.

  “Make no mistake, my lords: This is a thrall we’re discussing, not a young woman, not the equal of your wives and daughters. It is a semi-functioning brain inside a body that was not born but created. Furthermore, it is a valuable commodity which has been stolen and subverted from its intended purpose. It—”

  “That is enough.” The king silences the Premier with only a slight gesture. “Have you any witnesses who can confirm that any such training has taken place?”

  “No, my king. However—”

  “Then I think it’s time we heard from the Temple Mother and her witnesses,” the king says firmly. “Please be seated, Lord Premier.”

  The Premier bows his head and takes his place beside Cimari. Despite a wash of relief, I note uneasily that he doesn’t seem nearly as discouraged as he should be after what anyone with a scrap of logic could recognize as a flawed defense. But what am I supposed to say to all that? Where do I even begin? And how?

  My hands and face feel clammy and feverish, and I can’t stop shaking. I don’t think I can stand, much less defend myself with any degree of coherency. I cast a desperate look at Mother Wenla.

  “My king,” Mother Wenla says, rising gracefully to her feet. “I fear that my young friend is overwrought by these misrepresentations and half-truths. Might Sasha retire for a short time and begin once she has had a chance to compose herself?”

  “Of course.” The king nods and sighs. “We could all do with a bit of a break and some refreshment, I think. Go, then. We will reconvene when we are recovered.”

  Relevé

  “Are you alright?” Peering at me worriedly, Sadra pulls me into a small room adjoining the audience chamber. “I’m sorry—of course you aren’t. It’s just sickening, what they did in there.”

&
nbsp; “But they didn’t lie,” I say dazedly, shaking my head. “They never lied. They really do believe that I’m not a person.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sadra says. “They’re ignorant and complacent and what they believe matters not one whit.”

  But it does. My mind and body are in revolt, churning with helpless, disbelieving rage and despair. Throughout my time with Ismeni, I comforted myself with the knowledge that she simply didn’t know. My mask was too good, I told myself. If only I could allow her to see me rather than a thrall, she would see the truth. Or so I thought. It never occurred to me that seeing might not be the same as believing.

  I sink onto a long couch and sit for several minutes with my head in my hands and Sadra rubbing my back. I lean into her with my eyes closed and for a moment seriously consider running away. With Sadra’s skills, we might even make it out of the palace. But my half-formed fantasy is interrupted by the soft click of the door. My head jerks up. A bubble of hope rises—maybe it’s Luca—then flickers and pops in surprise. It’s not Luca or even Bard or Mother Wenla.

  It’s the princess Arismendi.

  Sadra stiffens beside me. She stares at the princess, her face twisted with something like hate—or maybe only hurt. When she speaks, her voice is harsh.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You’re on the trial council.”

  “I know.” Arismendi’s green eyes flick to me, then back to Sadra. “I’ve come to fetch you both. But first—can we talk?”

  Sadra rises and turns to fuss with the hem of my billowing trousers. “This isn’t the time or place.”

  “Sadra, please, let me explain—”

  “How could you possibly?” A tear lands on my wrist as Sadra whirls back around to face the princess. “I loved you. I pledged myself to you. I would have broken my vows for you. I betrayed my cause in trusting you, and you betrayed me. Sasha might die today because—because—I don’t even know. If you want to talk, tell me that—tell me why.”

  Arismendi, who has grown steadily redder in the face through Sadra’s tirade, lets out a puff of scornful laughter. “You dare to speak to me of trust? You’ve been lying to me since the moment we met!”

  I reach for Sadra’s hand. So it wasn’t a man who held her heart after all. I shift in my chair. “Um, maybe I should go…somewhere.”

  “Yes.” Arismendi takes a deep breath and schools her features with visible effort. “They’re waiting for you in the council chamber. But first—I’m sorry, Sasha. My Gift is unpredictable, and it took me by surprise. When I saw you, I was terrified. I forgot everything Sadra told me, everything I promised. I knew—I knew—that the world was going to end because of you. Now I understand that the world as I knew it must end, because I didn’t know it at all. And now that I do…it will end. Of course it will.”

  She frowns, a worried line forming between her brows. “I can tell you that my brother isn’t very impressed with the Premier’s arguments, and neither were the other council members. But you must be wary. I don’t think convincing them is the Premier’s primary aim. He relies more on spectacle than logic, and I think he’s hoping to make a spectacle of you.”

  I nod and squeeze Sadra’s hand. “Well, I’ll give him one. I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Arismendi motions for Sadra and me to enter ahead of her and closes the door softly behind us. The king and Council members look up at our approach, but the Apostate and the Premier are still arguing.

  “You are a disgrace to the House and a criminal to boot,” the Premier sneers. “Most importantly, however, your theories are completely unsubstantiated.”

  “No more so than your own theories,” the Apostate shoots back. “What real evidence is there to suggest that thralls are only echoes? All you have is supposition, prejudice, and sheer pigheaded refusal to consider anything that threatens your position.”

  “Be quiet,” the king snaps, for what must surely be the fifth or sixth time by now. “Sit down, both of you.” He glances at me. “Welcome once again, Sasha. I trust you are recovered?”

  “I am.” I move to stand before him and raise my chin. “I lived for months fearing for my life. I hid the only way I could—with a mask. For months, I was afraid to be seen. But I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t need my thrall’s mask, and I won’t ever wear it again. I’d like to show you something, please.”

  “And what will you show us?” the king asks.

  “The Temple of Graces teaches that the soul withers without knowledge of the beauty in oneself and in the world,” I say. “I want to show you that my soul is present, complete, and entirely my own.”

  The king nods, looking tired. Even so, he gives me a slight smile. “So may it be, child. Show us.”

  At Mother Wenla’s direction, chairs are cleared from the center of the room. Cimari and the Premier stand against the far wall, scowling and muttering to each other, while Mother Wenla settles herself nearby with her harp upon her knee. Bard stands beside her, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I can’t begin to read.

  Mother Wenla begins to play, rippling scales and arpeggios dancing around a melody that tugs at my memory. It’s not until Bard begins to sing that I recognize the tune as one of the many songs of Russia that my grandmother used to play on her ancient record player.

  One or two Council members look up in surprise as the foreign words leave Bard’s mouth, but the rest keep their eyes on me. I feel the weight of their combined gaze as if it were a physical force. It doesn’t bother me. I defied physical forces for most of my life, every time I rose en pointe.

  I begin to move, swept along and buoyed by Bard’s song. It was a smart move on his part: Though comforting and familiar to me, to the natives of Kingsgarden the Russian tongue must sound exotic, almost unearthly, underscoring our claim that we come from another world entirely.

  “Oh, it’s not evening, it’s not evening

  I was sleeping so small a time,

  I was sleeping so small a time,

  Oh, and I saw in my dreams…”

  The hair rises on the back of my neck, but I don’t falter. I continue to turn and wheel and dip, my movements infused with a kind of smooth inevitability that I’ve never quite managed to master before now. Though unplanned, each step is executed without hesitation, as if there’s only one possible path for me to take.

  “Oh, evil winds flew,

  Yes, from the eastern side,

  And snatched the black cap

  From my troubled head.”

  As the music swells, so does my dance, the gestures and phrases becoming broader and stronger. I catch a glimpse of Ismeni’s jaw hanging wide open as I spin in place with the toes of my left foot pointing straight at the ceiling. Another time, I would have laughed to see such an inelegant expression on her face, but I don’t have time for her right now. I pour everything I have and everything I am into this, the most important dance of my life.

  “Oh, it’s not evening, it’s not evening

  I was sleeping so small a time,

  I was sleeping so small a time,

  Oh, and I saw in my dreams…”

  At the climax of the song, something seems to break free inside me and burst out into the room. At first, no one notices. But then, under Bard’s song, a ripple of something strange passes through me. Memories that don’t belong to me bubble just under the surface of my own consciousness.

  As I dance, I catch glimpses of fire and blood and hear the sizzle of newly branded flesh. I feel the lash of the whip and the impotent, voiceless rage of a newly awakened thrall, the terror of knowing I’m trapped in a world that shouldn’t exist.

  Slowly, I come to rest and stand with my head bowed, letting the foreign sensations wash over me. Though I’ve felt it all myself, these memories aren’t my own: They’re Bard’s. I don’t know how he’s projecting them—I thought his Gift required physical contact—but somehow, it’s happening. The memories are nowhere near as vivid as the ones Bard shared directly with me, but even so,
the king and Council members shift and shiver in their seats. Whatever they’re seeing is evidently clear enough to make an impression.

  I lift my head.

  “I am myself,” I say, speaking not to the king but to Ismeni. “I am my own person. You don’t have the right to decide for me what I am.”

  “I think we are all satisfied on that point,” the king says.

  “However,” the Premier cuts in, “the point is moot.”

  “Moot?” the kindly man says incredulously. “The girl’s status as—well, as a girl—is what we are here to decide, is it not?”

  “With respect, my lord, it is not,” the Premier says with a bow. “We are here to decide if the House of Light and Shadow has the right to continue making use of thralls. And I say we do, regardless of what sort of mind lives inside the body. While it is admittedly a bit, ah, uncomfortable to consider, the fact of the matter is that the body in question was not born but created by us and as such belongs to us to do with as we please.

  “What’s more, the body in question cannot survive without the Pall. It owes its very life to us, which I say gives us the right to decide how to use it. And do not forget, my lords, that most thralls lead pampered, protected lives, knowing nothing of the struggles ordinary citizens face. Does it not seem a fair trade?”

  Bard is goggling at the Premier and at the Truthseer, who hasn’t said a word.

  “No one can be that ignorant unless it’s on purpose,” he says disbelievingly.

  “You have something to add?” the king asks, his eyes flashing.

  “We do,” the Apostate says, his hand on Bard’s shoulder. “The Premier has heard me state clearly and truthfully that Bard was a thrall and that I lifted the Pall from him, and yet he can state with perfect honesty his belief that thralls cannot survive on their own. Such blatant disregard for facts in one’s conception of the truth shows a dangerous trend in the House’s practices and philosophy which will at some point prove disastrous to your reign and to the kingdom’s well-being, regardless of what happens here today.”