Crown of Oblivion

by Julie Eshbaugh

  Asps.

  My stomach rises and falls like the sea in a storm, but I won’t acknowledge it. Not my roiling stomach or my careering heart. I wouldn’t let Renya see fear in me, and I won’t let the Asps see it either.

  It’s then that I realize how greatly I misjudged Renya. How could I have assumed that her fears were only for herself and not for me? But it’s too late to let her help me now. Too late to do anything to save myself.

  So instead, I bite my lips between my teeth to hold them still, and remind myself what courage really is. Not the lack of fear, but action in the face of fear. And not selfish action, either, but action taken in love. Like sneaking outside the palace wall in order to warn a friend. Or willingly entering the Race of Oblivion to save your brothers from lives of misery.

  The Asps each take a step toward me, and I realize another way I misjudged Renya. I had been wrong to assume she was exaggerating.

  Just as she’d said, in their gloved hands, each of them holds a syringe.

  Four

  My eyes catch on the hand of the Asp closest to me, and I notice the liquid in the vial, a cool blue color. I think of that blue mixing with the red of my blood, as a figure emerges from behind the tallest Asp.

  It’s Sir Arnaud, with a pleasant smile on his lips and a hard warning in his eyes. His uniform as commander of the King’s Knights makes him appear just as intimidating, yet far more elegant, than the Asps. Who would dare argue with a man in a bloodred cape with a sword at his hip? Just behind him his daughter, Sir Millicent, appears.

  “This is a gorgeous spot from which to view the city,” Arnaud says, as if we’re all out here to have a picnic and we’ve been waiting for him to spread a blanket on the ground. I know him well enough to understand that this act he’s putting on is for my benefit. His position allows him the constant choice between cruelty and mercy, and at this moment, he has chosen to be merciful to me. He could easily send me to the whipping post immediately—he sees Renya right in front of him—but he instead takes a moment to admire the view and comfort me with a smile.

  It’s lucky for me. I may still find myself under the whip tonight, but for now it looks like I may avoid it.

  “Princess Renya and Astrid,” he continues. “How are you this evening?”

  “We are well,” Renya replies. Her eyes scan the hooded faces of the Asps. We are anything but well, and everyone present knows it.

  “I came looking for you both to explain that Astrid was needed in the infirmary, but I see our visitors have found her.”

  The infirmary . . . that makes sense. I’ve been wondering where they would do it. The infirmary is downstairs on the first cellar level, away from the residential rooms but still above the cold storage, and worse, of the deeper levels.

  Renya heaves a sigh so heavy her shoulders shrug. Her eyes shift from my face to Arnaud’s before she steps around us, heading straight up the path toward the gate, leading our unlikely procession inside the palace wall.

  “Don’t let the Asps scare you; they’re harmless,” Arnaud whispers to me as we step through the double doors held open by two Outsider footmen, who turn their faces rather than look at me. The Asps file in behind us. They are far less otherworldly up close, where I can hear them sniffle and cough. Still, they’re harmless the way being buried alive is harmless. The fact I’m still breathing doesn’t mean I’m safe.

  Inside the grand entranceway of the palace—a room with curved alabaster walls and an impossibly high ceiling—we find Prince Lars. He wears a midnight-blue riding jacket and a scowl. “Finally,” he says, and my stomach clenches at the anger in his voice. “Do you not realize, Princess Renya, that all of Lanoria cannot stop to accommodate your whims?”

  But Renya, as if to prove that all of Lanoria can and will accommodate her, ignores him and leads the way to the narrow flight of stairs that descend to the infirmary. Behind us, Arnaud’s boots slam heavily on the marble floor, and I wonder if his mercy toward me has run out.

  The tidy rooms that make up the infirmary block are all dark tonight but one—the very last room at the end of the hall. A sliver of light bleeds from under the closed door.

  Sweeping past Renya and me, the Asps lead us into a small cell of bright white walls surrounding a solitary cot. “This room is not the last thing anyone wants to see,” I say. “Is it meant to serve as a preview of the white silk lining of my casket?”

  “Astrid!” Sir Arnaud snaps. “This is not a time for jokes!”

  Renya steps to my side as I stretch out on the cot. “That’s sweet that you think you’ll be buried in a casket,” she says. She gives me a very sad smile, and I wish I hadn’t tried to kid with her at all.

  The Asps gather around, and the dread I’ve been shoving away comes rushing back, bursting out of Renya, too, so I can’t tell where her feelings end and mine start. I notice the wrist and ankle restraints on the sides of the cot as four other Outsiders file in, including Kit, Prince Lars’s surrogate. He wears a very fine high-collared shirt—a recent castoff from Lars—and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

  Of course he volunteered to help.

  We might both be surrogates, but Kit and I are far from friends. He has always hated me, and there’s no lack of palace gossip as to the reason why. Some say it’s because Kit was beaten the day he arrived, as Lars’s punishment for having helped my brother Jayden escape. There’s no evidence that Lars actually helped, of course, but Kit was punished anyway.

  Whatever Kit’s reasons, he hates me, and he’s made that more than clear. And the treatment I’ve received from him over the years has made me hate him back.

  Renya flicks a glance at him when he steps to my side. “That’s all right,” she says, positioning herself between Kit and me. “I’ll handle her restraints.”

  “Princess.” This one word spit through the commander’s teeth carries an entire lecture on the appropriate actions of royalty. Renya narrows her eyes and tosses a glare over her shoulder, but she yields her place by my wrist to Kit.

  Each of the Outsiders slides one of my limbs into a restraint and holds me down, and I wonder if I’m expected to thrash when I receive the drug. I hope not. For some reason—I’m not sure why—I can’t stand the thought of losing my dignity. It’s one thing to fall into Oblivion, it’s another to flail into it. Though I’m focusing on the wrong concerns, I’m sure.

  Once Kit has tightened the restraint on my right wrist, an Asp approaches and wraps a tourniquet around my upper arm. Kit leans over and whispers into my ear. “Good luck,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s being sincere or sarcastic.

  I feel my veins swell. A different Asp has come to inspect the crook of my elbow. Renya appears at my left side. She’s nudged one of the Outsiders, a stooped man who works in the gardens, from his place. I suppose Arnaud knows he won’t win, because he doesn’t shoo her away this time.

  Renya touches the base of my throat with cold fingertips, tracing the still-pink scar that marks where my embed used to be. “It’s healing well, considering that man took no care in making the cut.”

  Seriously, the fact she can spare some concern for the prospect of a scar on my chest when I’m about to enter a deadly race boggles my mind. “What about the other one?” I say. “The embed in the back?”

  “It will come out once you’re asleep,” says Arnaud, and I cringe at this. I hate the thought of being handled and moved about, like I’m nothing but a rag doll.

  A pinprick and then a burn . . . The Asp beside me pushes down on the first plunger, and my eyes press shut. What little I know about the drugs I’ve gleaned from rumors. Three drugs are given, one by each Asp. The first is just a tranquilizer. I already feel its effects, my muscles melting into the cot like wax on a hot rock.

  The second brings Oblivion.

  The third brings deep sleep.

  A second pinprick, but I hardly notice the pain. The second Asp steps back, the empty syringe in his hand, Oblivion already coursing through me.<
br />
  My lungs expand. The room brightens. The whiteness yields to colors that throb at the edges of my vision. I hear music, like wind chimes, and it occurs to me that I am hallucinating. My breath fills my lungs and I feel the oxygen it carries to my every cell. It’s icy cold, and yet it heats me. I open my mouth and a laugh breaks in my throat. My eyes find Renya’s, and I see fear in her. “Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I feel wonderful.”

  “No pain?” she asks.

  “No pain,” I answer. I stare into her brown eyes, and I feel awash in love for her. I know it’s the drug—I know this unbounded well-being will pass—but right now I feel invincible. I can hardly wait to wake up in the race. I feel like I could run across the continent tonight and be at the finish line by morning. Like I will never tire again.

  This must be the purpose of the restraints. My arms and legs strain against them, testing their strength to contain me. I’m surprised they do.

  The third pinprick comes, and before the needle is out of my arm, the world begins to blur at the corners. A mist rises from the floor as Renya watches my face. “She’s slipping away,” she says. I want to tell her I’m still wide-awake, but my mouth doesn’t work. I let my eyes fall closed for a moment. When I open them, I’m alone. The door to the corridor is closed.

  I want to say Renya’s name, to call her back to my side, but my body won’t respond. The restraints feel like heavy weights. The music is still there, the colors still pulse, but it’s fading. The door opens. Only my eyes slide to the person who steps through. My head is too heavy to turn.

  In the doorway stands the king, draped in a navy-blue robe. He walks in, alone. This must be a dream, another hallucination from the drug. His beard glows the same bright white as the walls, like snow clinging to cheeks so pale, they’re almost transparent.

  “I wanted to see you before you left us, Astrid,” he says. “I can see in your eyes—your wide-open pupils—that you are feeling the effects of the drug. I hope you are comfortable.”

  I try to smile, to tell him how good I feel, but the third drug has trapped me as if I’ve been turned to stone.

  “I know all about this drug, Oblivion. Maybe too much,” he says. “I’ve come to depend upon it. Not total Oblivion, of course, but enough. Enough to feel like a great man.” He steps toward me and lays a hand on mine. He’s warm. Could it be that the king is actually here? “I’ve come looking for the Asps. I need them to make me comfortable, even at the expense of their own comfort. It terrifies them, to share the drug with me. But it’s only small doses, the smallest that will do the job. To make me feel like the great man I know I no longer am.

  “But I will be great again soon, Astrid.” He smiles. “Do you know why I’ve told you my secret? Because I know yours.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I know you have Cientia.”

  My heart races. The king is not really here. I’m sure of that. As he stands over me, his beard catches fire, and when he speaks again, his breath is like a wind that fans the flames. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, the fire racing up to his hair. “I won’t tell anyone, though I doubt I’m the only one who knows. It’s become quite obvious, I’m afraid.”

  As the king speaks, flames spread to the walls; they flicker across the ceiling. I wish I could scream. It’s all in your mind, I tell myself. None of it’s real. “I’m going to make changes,” the king continues. “I know the Outsiders are suffering—your own family is suffering—but all that will soon change. I will be the great leader Oblivion makes me believe myself to be.” His smile widens, and beams of light shine through the gaps between his teeth. “I’ll leave you now, but first, one more secret. I’m sure you must be curious to know why you have Cientia, when all other Outsiders do not. Well, I know why, and before you go, I want to tell you.”

  The door opens. A figure enters. My Oblivion-poisoned eyes try to make sense of what they see. At first it’s an Asp, then a bear, then my father. Then someone I know—a face so familiar—but I can’t place it. Something is clasped in the figure’s raised hand. . . . A syringe? A knife? Then the hand comes down, and the body of the king slumps to the floor.

  Fire has spread to every part of the room. Everything burns except the figure that bends over the fallen king.

  As I stare, I feel myself slipping away. The flames burn less bright. The roar in my ears fades. The figure in the center of the room approaches and leans close, whispering into my ear.

  “It doesn’t matter what you saw here.” I try to place the voice, but it’s muffled and indistinct. “In a few minutes, you will have forgotten this. You will have forgotten everything. And before any of it comes back to you, you will be dead.”

  Five

  I wake to pain.

  The sound of the whip tugs at my mind just before the pain of the lash returns, splitting me in two.

  I want to scream, but all I can do is groan. As I slump forward, my gaze goes to my bare knees, grinding into a dirty stone floor. A floor I don’t recognize, in a room I don’t know. Sweat runs from my forehead, burning my eyes. I wear nothing but thin underclothes—white splattered red. My wrists, bound above my head, burn as they strain against rope.

  Where am I? What could I have done to deserve this?

  The crack of the whip returns, followed by searing pain. My mind searches for answers, clutches at thoughts, but each lash drives them away and plunges me back into a dark pit of pain. I hear my voice again, but this time it’s only a gasp. I want to let go—to let the pain pull me under and hold me there—but a stubborn strength won’t let me give in. I try to raise my head to see the face of the one who holds the whip, but my eyes swim with tears and the person’s features smear.

  Then a voice cuts through the pain. A girl screams, “Stop! You’ve hurt her enough!”

  “I’ve hurt her?” A boy’s voice, calm and measured. “Put the blame where it belongs, sister.”

  I try to identify the voices, grasping for something to latch onto to slow my mind in its race toward madness, but then another lash sends every thought scattering, until the voices go silent, and mercifully, darkness crashes down.

  I wake again, pulling myself up from deep sleep, this time roused by a rhythm I can’t quite make sense of. For a moment I’m half alert and half still dreaming, and I have the feeling of standing on the deck of a boat, letting the dream slide below the surface, watching it disappear into the depths. That’s how it feels at least, and I understand why when I open my eyes to find myself draped across a rock surrounded by the sea. Each wave that crashes against the rock mists my body with spray that is soft everywhere but on my back. There, each successive splash stabs like a dagger.

  Over and over, fists of water pound the base of the rock before retreating. I have no idea how I got here, or even where I am. I feel the echo of the lost dream, and I’m convinced it was a dream about home, but now that I’m fully awake, I can’t think of where home is.

  I steady myself and look around. I’m stranded on the point of a jetty. In front of me, a wide beach of black sand stretches in both directions, but the path across the rocks is submerged beneath the waves. The sun is directly overhead, and a shimmering haze of heat rises from the distant sand, like a curtain hanging up instead of down.

  I watch the waves. As I do, I try to think of home, and when that’s not there, I try to think of the face of just one member of my family, but nothing comes. Making it easy on myself, I try to think of my own name, but even that’s gone, maybe dropped into the sea with my dream.

  Each wave brings pain, so I breathe in and out in time with the waves, to make the pain more tolerable. A shadow grows behind me, stretching out toward the sea.

  I may not know my own name, but I know misery, and this is it.

  I try to concentrate on all the things I do know, to distract myself from all the things I suddenly don’t. I know that the landmass in front of me must be Lanoria, because that’s the name of the only landmass I can think of.

  So if this is the coast of Lan
oria, it must be the east coast, because the sun is moving toward the land.

  Other things I know: The tide is going out. In time, the rocks of the jetty will be exposed and I will be able to walk to the beach. I don’t recognize the white dress I’m wearing, but it’s so drenched by sea spray I can see through it, and I recognize the underclothes I wore as I was lashed.

  The whipping. The voices—a girl and a boy. That memory of my life before I woke stands alone, a single scrap of paper in an empty drawer.

  When the tide goes out, I wade to the empty stretch of sand. The jagged rocks claw at the skin of my bare feet, but compared to the pain in my back, it’s nothing. There’s a small measure of comfort in the fact that my one personal memory assures me that I can be strong in the face of pain.

  On the beach, I find a knobby black rock that’s almost big enough to be called a boulder, sitting in the middle of the sand as if it’s been dropped from the sky. Pinned beneath it, a ragged piece of cloth flaps in the wind.

  A map.

  My hands tear at the sand around the map, and the sand tears back, wedging under my nails and digging into tiny cuts on my skin. It doesn’t slow me. My thirst has my full attention now, and all my thoughts turn toward the hope that this map will show a freshwater source.

  But when it finally comes free, it’s nothing more than a few simple markings in black ink on white canvas—a straight line leading to a tower, and a small x that I can only guess marks the place I’m standing. No circle representing a pond or lake, no farmhouse or village or stream. A star hovers in the space above the tower, a building shown as a rectangle around hash marks that might represent a ladder or stairway. That’s it.

  Flipping the cloth over, I find a few lines of text: