“I’m alright,” I whisper hoarsely. “I’m—”
“Alive,” Luca breathes, and presses his forehead against mine.
He and Sadra help me to my feet and stand by my side, Sadra’s arm around my waist and Luca’s around my shoulders. The silence of the audience hall is broken only by my own wet snuffling as I attempt to stem my nosebleed. I catch sight of the Premier’s face, transfixed with shock and fury, and laugh. Triumph rises in my chest like a balloon, expanding until it fills my whole body.
I’m free. Finally, truly, free.
“I am alive,” I say, my voice still ragged. “Miocostin. Your brother says you’re a good man, and I believe him. So hear me: The mages of the House of Light and Shadow stole me from my home and enslaved me. They believe that they are justified in this. They will continue to lie and cheat and hurt in order to protect their interests, and that makes them a danger to everyone in your care.”
The king nods gravely. “The Council will convene—”
He’s interrupted by a strange whir and thunk. He breaks off, frowning down at the knife protruding from his chest. Luca is already moving, pushing me down to the floor and diving toward his brother through the sudden mess of screaming, flailing bodies. But he isn’t fast enough. Another knife appears, this time in the King’s throat. He collapses in Luca’s arms, blood flowing over his lips and neck.
Something hard barrels into me, knocking me sideways. The floor, suddenly slippery with blood, fouls my recovery and I fall, barely catching myself on my hands and knees. Above me, Bard wrestles with a masked swordsman wearing plain, nondescript clothing. Not a guard, then. Who are these people? What is going on?
I watch, transfixed with horror, as Bard tears the sword away from my attacker and plunges it into the man’s stomach. He turns to me, reaches out his hand—and then drops it, a long blade blossoming out of his stomach like a grotesque flower. Another masked man jerks his sword out of Bard’s body and takes a step toward me, only to stumble backward again as Sadra loops a small, flexible wire around his neck and pulls viciously.
“Sa…Sasha.”
Heedless of the danger surrounding me, I crawl to Bard’s side and take his bloody hand in my own. Images and sensations flood my mind, and through it all is weaved a name, repeated over and over again through countless years of longing and loss. Nadia. Her face flashes before my eyes in a hundred different permutations: laughing, crying, scolding, radiant with joy and incandescent with rage and defiance, tender and fierce, on and on until finally, a new face emerges.
I see my own eyes and nose and mouth, so similar to Nadia’s though twisted with bitterness, and I feel his pain and his guilt. I see myself thrashing and screaming as the Premier rips the Pall away from me, and I feel his fear. I hear myself call him Grandfather, and I feel his joy. I see the blood and tears on my face as I stare down at him in this very moment, and I feel his peace.
“Farewell, kotik,” Bard sighs, and slips beyond my reach forever.
“No,” I choke. “No. Come back. Dedushka—”
“Sasha, move!”
I scramble backward, out of Sadra’s way. She moves faster than thought, feinting and slashing as she tries to get under the swordsman’s guard. I look around wildly, trying to find someplace to go. Luca and his soldiers form a half circle around the king—or maybe just the king’s body. Arismendi and Ismeni have dragged him against the wall and now bend over him, desperately trying to stanch his wounds. Mother Wenla holds the king’s hands in her own and stares deeply into his eyes.
“Sasha!” Luca calls frantically. “Get—”
I push myself to my feet, intending to make for the safety of Luca’s circle of swords. But before I can move, I find myself jerked backward by my hair. My back hits the ground hard, knocking the wind out of me.
Cimari smirks down at me, clutching a sword in both hands. Her face is flushed with eagerness and excitement. Her hands shake slightly, more with emotion than strain.
“You should have died,” she says, and raises the sword.
I move instinctively, driven in equal parts by long-suppressed rage and fresh, wild grief. My hand shoots out and closes on her ankle. With a snarl, I pull it out from under her and she falls, the sword clattering to the ground beside her. I’m on her in a flash, my fingers tight on her throat. She bucks and writhes beneath me, but I hold her down with strength born of a deep, primal desire to dominate and destroy my enemy.
I squeeze, noting with detached interest the way her eyes bulge and pop. Her lips move, but soundlessly—not a trickle of air slips past my grip. I look more closely at the shapes formed by her mouth, studying them intently until a word emerges.
Mercy.
In another time, another life, I would have granted her request. But I’m not the girl I was. That girl is dead. Just like Dove and Pretty Girl…and Bard.
This monster has beaten me to within an inch of my life not once, but twice, and both times I took it in silence. She killed Pretty Girl without a moment’s thought and without even a semblance of regret…and I let her do it.
I watched. I did nothing. But no more. I promised myself that if she ever laid a hand on me again, I would kill her.
And I always keep my promises.
“Let go.” Sadra tugs on my wrist, her nails biting into the skin. “Sasha, let go. We have to move.”
Sadra’s voice is distant and muffled. I shake my head, half in denial and half in an attempt to clear it of the cottony feeling between my ears.
With a grunt of effort, Sadra pulls me off Cimari’s corpse and drags me free of the melee. Tiny bursts of light flare in my vision, and my breath sounds unnaturally loud in my ears.
“I’m going to be sick,” I choke.
“No, you’re not,” Sadra says. “We don’t have time.”
She deals me a brisk and businesslike slap across the face, startling me out of my nausea.
“Thanks,” I gasp, and we scurry along the wall.
“Stop this.”
I freeze, and so does everyone else. Arismendi stalks into the middle of the room, seemingly without care for the swords and knives drawn all around her. She glares around at the few masked fighters still standing. A blood-soaked soldier shoves the Premier forward to sprawl at Arismendi’s feet.
“You are defeated,” she says coldly. “Lay down your weapons and you will be granted the mercy of a painless death. Resist and I will order my men to take you alive, that you may be publicly flayed before you die.”
She pulls the cowering Truthseer to her feet.
“Who is responsible for this attack?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” the Truthseer wails. “I told you—”
“Try,” Arismendi insists. “I believe you may surprise yourself.”
The Truthseer, shaking, closes her eyes. A moment later, they fly open again and she points straight at the Premier.
“He is responsible,” she says, her voice firm now. “He ordered the attack.”
“I thought so.” Arismendi’s fists clench as she looks down on the Premier. “The trial was a sham. You only needed time and a distraction to move your thugs into place.”
The Premier raises his hands. “Princess—”
“Queen.” Luca moves to stand beside his sister, his hand steady on his sword. “You are addressing your queen.”
My eyes widen and fly to where Ismeni sits with Miocostin’s head in her lap. Tears stream down her face. The king is dead.
“My queen,” the Premier says, his tongue flicking out like a lizard’s. “I know nothing of these men. I—”
“He lies!” the Truthseer shrieks. “He lies!”
“This man is guilty of treason and regicide,” Arismendi says, her eyes glittering. “Kill him.”
But Luca’s sword is already in motion. The Premier’s head strikes the floor in the same instant Arismendi gives her order.
“It’s over.” Arismendi takes a shuddering breath, her face pale. “Soldiers, put down your
arms.”
They obey her at once, loyal and rebel alike laying aside their weapons. All but Luca. He kneels and offers Arismendi his sword, laid flat across his palms.
“Hail the queen,” he says softly, and his words are echoed by all who are able to speak the words.
“Rise, Captain.”
Arismendi pulls him to his feet and into an embrace. The gesture appears calm, regal. But I see her face crumple as she leans into his shoulder. She steps away after only a moment, her shoulders squared and her chin lifted.
“Come,” she says. “There is work to be done.”
The cleanup is surprisingly orderly and efficient. Mother Wenla oversees the removal of the injured to the healing wing, and Luca’s guards haul the masked men away. The Apostate stands at Arismendi’s side, occasionally murmuring responses to her questions. But his eyes frequently find me where Sadra and I sit, tucked away in a corner.
“Shouldn’t you go with Mother Wenla?” Luca asks anxiously at one point, hovering over us. “She could give you one of her boosts, at least.”
“I don’t need them anymore,” I remind him. “I’m free. My strength is mine to keep, now.”
“And to share,” Arismendi remarks. “You’re the Chalice, Sasha.”
“The Chalice…” I shake my head, dazed.
“It was never a cup,” Arismendi says. “The Chalice was a person—a person like you, with your Gift. You make the Gifts of others stronger.”
I blink and stare at her stupidly as she continues, “I have seen…so many things. I was right, you know. You will tear down the kingdom.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“So am I,” she says, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Costi would have done it, you know. He would have put a stop to all of the House’s atrocities. He was a good king, a good man. And he died for it.”
“And you?” I ask. “What will you do?”
“What will we do,” she corrects me. “I’m going to rebuild my kingdom…with a Chalice at my side.”
Coda
Rebuilding a kingdom, as it turns out, is a hell of a lot of work. I like to think that I would have made the same choice if I had realized what I was in for, but I’m glad I didn’t know. Arismendi, in her queenly wisdom, has appointed me the face of her campaign for reform. As a result, I am constantly on display. I now wear a different sort of mask, but a familiar one: a performer’s professional, gracious smile.
I’m not bothered by the weight of a thousand pairs of eyes on me, but I could certainly stand to live without the angry, defensive skepticism I encounter from those whose wealth and status are bolstered by Lightcrafting…and even from those who simply don’t want to believe they were wrong, that their world isn’t what they thought it was.
Every conversation is a sparring match of pointed questions, sneering observations, and outright attacks. They watch my every move, waiting for something, anything that could constitute a hole in my story or in the logic of my very existence. It’s exhausting.
Sadra has been a great help, of course, and I have found an unexpected ally in Ismeni. While she hasn’t offered anything approaching an apology, she has sought me out on occasion to ask me questions about the Pall and my life under its influence…and about Cimari. She actually listens to my answers, which, as Sadra has pointed out, is more important than getting an apology, especially since Ismeni is also willing to share my information with an army of fashionable young ladies throughout the Terrace and the City.
Right now, though, I am alone and free to set down my burdens for a time. Or mostly alone. Luca watches me from the doorway of the courtyard, but his presence is no more burdensome than that of my shadow. He’s a part of me.
“Bayu, bayushki, bayu…”
I sing softly to myself as I raise my arm over my head in a graceful curve, aware that Luca’s eyes follow my every move. Though my freedom no longer depends on my barre exercises, I go through the same routine every evening, dancing in the small courtyard that has become my sanctuary, a tiny Eden cooled by the misty breath of the waterfall and covered in moss and vines and beautiful mosaics.
I take my time, enjoying the feel of Luca’s admiring gaze as I complete my exercise. Between lessons and meetings and representatives flooding in from all over the kingdom, I’ve had barely any time alone with him in the two months since Miocostin’s death.
But right now there is nothing to be done that can’t wait until tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to showing Luca just how much I’ve missed him. I cross the courtyard and slide into his arms, tilting my head back for a kiss.
“Wait,” he says, unwinding my arms from around his neck.
Surprised, I pull away and look at him with a question in my eyes.
“Porr wants to see you,” Luca tells me. “He says it’s urgent.”
My stomach lurches. I can think of only one thing that Porr would consider urgent, inundated as he is with thralls clamoring to be freed from the Pall.
My mother.
The decision to look for her was born first of obligation, buffeted as I was by guilt and the scorching wind of Bard’s funeral pyre. I had wasted so much time being angry and defensive and afraid. I had been selfish, unwilling to share myself or my memories of Baba Nadia with my own grandfather, her husband. I had denied a sad, lonely old man any acknowledgment of our shared blood until it was too late. The shame of it may ease in time, but the knowledge will stay with me forever—as it should.
If atonement for cowardice is possible, it can only start with facing my fears. So I spoke to Porr, and, as soon as the dust cleared from the Premier’s failed coup, he sent word of my mother to Bird’s Path sparrows and fledglings all over Kingsgarden. And now, it seems his efforts may have paid off.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Luca asks. “Or would you rather be alone?”
“No.” I hold tight to his hand. “No, I don’t want to be alone. Come with me, please.”
He gives my hand a squeeze and tucks it through his arm as he leads me from our chambers. I raise a hand to my hair, belatedly wondering if I should have bathed and changed. Too late now, I suppose. My mother, if she’s really here, will have to take me as I am.
Porr meets us at the door of his workroom, an eager smile creasing his craggy face. My heart begins to pound, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or anticipation.
“It’s true, then,” I breathe. “You found her.”
Porr’s smile flickers. “No. But there’s someone here you should meet.”
He ushers me inside and bows to a dark-haired woman, who sits with her hands clasped before her.
“I present to you Lady Myna,” Porr says. “A Bird’s Path owl.”
“Like Bard,” I murmur.
Porr nods and squeezes my shoulder, motioning for me to sit in one of the chairs opposite Lady Myna. I obey, and Luca follows suit.
“Yes,” Porr says. “Very much like Bard, though she operated in the auction houses rather than the caravans.”
“That’s where I met your mother,” Myna tells me, her voice surprisingly low and husky. “She was my first nestling.”
“Were you…were you friends?” I ask hesitantly. “Did you know her well?”
“I’m sorry,” Myna says. “I never spoke to her, not really. I didn’t even know her name until I heard you were looking for her. But…she made an impression. I never saw a thrall so determined to survive, before or since.”
I nod, my throat tight, and reach again for Luca’s hand. “But she’s not here, is she?”
Myna and Porr share a brief, inscrutable look. Then Porr motions for us all to sit.
“Just tell me,” I say, my fingers stiff and cold in Luca’s. “Is she dead?”
“Yes.” Myna’s eyelids flicker, then her gaze steadies. “She was placed in the plains surrounding the City of Sage. She and her husband raised horses until raiders burned the place to the ground two years ago.”
“She had a husband?” I look down at my fingers
intertwined with Luca’s. “A family? She—was she happy, do you think?”
“I think so,” Myna says evenly.
Myna stands. Luca and I rise as well, thinking the interview is over, but Porr holds up his hand for us to remain. He follows Myna to the door and bows to her as she leaves.
“Wait,” he instructs us.
Luca and I share a confused glance and sit down again.
We wait in silence, my foot tapping and twitching nervously against Luca’s. When I can’t stand it any longer, I open my mouth to demand an explanation. But then Porr opens the door and all my questions fly right out of me on the wind of my next breath.
For a moment, I could swear my heart literally skips a beat—or two, or a hundred. Luca stiffens beside me, his fingers suddenly crushingly tight on my own.
“The sun shines on you, my lady, my lord.”
A slight, dark-haired girl peeps shyly up at us, Kirit cradled in her arms. Her eyes widen as they meet mine, wonder and confusion mingling together in the cloudy blue. Kirit slips from her arms and she steps forward, every inch of her slender body trembling like a leaf. My fingers slide through Luca’s as I move toward her, drawn as if by a magnet.
Slowly, I sink to my knees.
“Who are you?” she whispers, reaching out to touch my face.
I can’t speak. I can only stare at her, taking in every tiny, miraculous detail. Her forehead furrows, and a little line appears between her brows, one just like mine.
“Why have they left us?”
I look around and realize that we are indeed alone. Luca, Porr, and even Kirit are nowhere to be seen. I turn back to the girl and try to smile.
“So that we can talk, I think. Is that alright?”
“Yes.” She brings her other hand to my face, cupping my cheeks in her palms. “My mother is dead. But you look like her.”
A small huff of laughter eases the tightness in my throat. “So do you.”
“Lady Myna told me I was coming to meet my family,” the girl says. “She said you’re going to take care of me now.”
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