The Order of the Eternal Sun

by Jessica Leake

  Lord Titus’s lip curls. “She is no threat at all, you fool. But as I’m sure you’ve learned in your own pathetic realm, knowledge is power.”

  “A universal truth,” Alexander says, still feeling like he’s about to grab the tiger by its tail, but pressing on. “From what I’ve gathered, your desire for knowledge is in order to overthrow the queen.”

  It was a guess, really, just an instinct Alexander had. But his words find their mark: Lord Titus takes a step back as though Alexander struck him.

  His features rearrange themselves into the same calculating expression, but Alexander’s sharp eyes see that his own instincts have paid off. Titus is unsettled. “Keeping the princess’s secrets won’t help you. The queen is out for blood, and you will pay in full. You might remember my offer when they come for you with chains.”

  Fear whispers through him, but he stands unflinchingly before Lord Titus. “I’ll remember, but my answer remains unchanged.”

  One last smirk, and then Lord Titus places his hand on the wall, filling the small cell with the almost electrical sensation of arcana. The doorway appears, and he steps through.

  Alone again, Alexander gives into the adrenaline flooding his body and braces one hand on the wall while he fights to slow his racing heart.

  NINETEEN

  AFTER promising the visiting family members that they will have the chance to see me at the ball in just a few days’ time, Grandmother gives me the grand tour she promised. The castle holds twenty-eight bedrooms, twenty bathrooms—with their own indoor plumbing thanks to the streams that run through the castle—two libraries, a massive kitchen the size of a ballroom, two dining rooms, and ten gardens. But what interests me most are the paintings: portraits of my mother, portraits of fantastical beasts, portraits of Sylvani kin—including one massively gold-framed portrait with my grandmother in an elaborate golden gown with yards and yards of train. She stands beside a dark-haired man in a long golden jacket and dark pants, a jeweled crown upon his head. Grandmother told me it was the portrait of her wedding day, and I spent long moments just staring at the many details in the painting—like Serafino and a big white stag watching the proceedings.

  I try to memorize as much as I can. I want to be able to describe everything to my siblings, perhaps even draw it myself if I can. How I wish they were here.

  Grandmother finally takes me to a room on one of the castle’s top floors. Numerous easels with creamy white canvases stand waiting, begging for that first brushstroke. An entire wall is dedicated to art supplies, organized in jeweled boxes: pretty pots of paint, brushes from the thin and wispy to bulky and wide, charcoal, pastels, along with several things I’ve never seen before.

  The ceilings are sky high, and this must be a place Grandmother spends quite a bit of time in, for there’s even a silver and gold tree with branches for Serafino to rest on. The windows let in just the right amount of light, casting everything in a soft, afternoon sun glow. It’s beautiful light to paint by, and as I look around, I realize that’s the purpose of the room.

  How Alexander would love to see this, I think before I can stop myself, and I stamp down on that line of thinking so viciously I nearly give myself a headache. I must acquaint myself with thinking of him as he truly is: the man who betrayed me, my enemy.

  Rose, I correct myself angrily. I should think of how much Rose would enjoy a room full of more art supplies than she could ever dream of.

  How I wish I could show her—the thought of her reaction to the many beauties of this world brings a smile to my face. Even the elegant scenes of Japan she painted would pale in comparison.

  After a moment or two of internal debate, I realize I’ve remained silent for far too long. I struggle to form a coherent thought to express my excitement over this room. “Would you mind terribly if I spent the rest of my visit in here?”

  Grandmother laughs, the musical sound filling the space. “I certainly wouldn’t blame you. If I could, I’d spend every moment in here, painting.”

  “I always wondered where I got my love for art,” I say with one of those unsteady smiles that could just as easily turn into tears.

  “I’m sure you’re quite gifted, as even mortals can be.” She steps over to the wall of supplies and plucks a fan brush from a golden cup. After dipping it in a pot of azure paint, she moves it across the blank canvass in confident strokes, her hand moving so fast I only register the finished product: a bird in flight. “But there’s so much more you can do.”

  I hold my breath. Grandmother sweeps one hand over the canvas, wiping the paint away. When she opens her hand, the bird from her painting bursts free.

  I laugh delightedly as the bird flits from branch to branch under Serafino’s watchful eye. “How wonderful—I always knew an artist could breathe life into her art.”

  “This is the least of what you can do—a child’s trick.” She hands me the brush and paint. “It’s a good starting point for you, though, because the channeling of arcana is similar to what you must master.”

  I take the proffered supplies. “Will I truly be able to pull things straight out of the air?” I glance at my hands uncertainly. I have no doubt of my artistic talent, but what Grandmother did was so otherworldly it’s hard to imagine ever channeling that much power.

  “You can,” Grandmother says with such confidence it is difficult to doubt myself. “It’s part of my gift to know things about others, and I can say with certainty that I know this about you.” She nods toward the canvas. “Paint whatever small, living object you’d like.”

  I glance back at her uncertainly. I’d been imagining trying my hand at something without a heartbeat—like a necklace. I turn back to the canvas, dip the brush in the paint, and do what I’ve always done when I need inspiration: let the brush paint what it will.

  The first few strokes are a bit unsteady. Painting in front of an audience has never been easy for me, especially when it’s someone as illustrious as my Sylvan grandmother. But as it always happens, I relax to the soothing sounds of the brush on canvas, the sweet smell of the paint, and the beauty of the creamy white turning blue.

  In the end, my finished object has no heartbeat, but it’s still alive: a blue orchid.

  “Beautiful,” Grandmother says approvingly. She takes a few steps forward and gently grabs hold of my hand. Placing it over my painting, she closes her eyes. After a moment, I do the same. “Do you feel that faint buzzing?”

  I start to shake my head, but then suddenly, I can feel it. Vibrations beneath my fingertips. “Yes.”

  “That’s the thrum of life, and all living creatures have it—even this orchid.”

  I open my eyes for a moment, confused. “But why should my painting be alive?”

  Grandmother smiles. “Because you painted it. You set the groundwork without even realizing it. The next step is to harness it and set your orchid free.”

  “How?”

  “Push your arcana into the painting. Use it to fuel the orchid and bring it to life.”

  I reach inside myself for the stores of arcana—like a spring of water bubbling just under the surface—only this time, the well is dry. I send a panicked look to Grandmother, but it’s Rowen who answers my cry for help.

  You are forgetting I am your source of arcana in this world, he says gently. Bigger enchantments require more arcana than you have stored.

  Unsure exactly what I must do, I close my eyes and reach outside of myself this time—just as I’d draw on the sun’s energy. Instantly, I’m flooded with arcana, and I clumsily transfer it to my orchid painting.

  I try to mimic Grandmother’s sleight of hand, transferring the arcana as I sweep my hand across the canvas, but when I examine the contents of my hand, my face falls.

  Grandmother touches my shoulder as we gaze down at the sad, paper orchid in my hand. The electric thrum that was its life has disappeared.

  “It wasn’t bad for your first go of it,” she says, and I wince. I’m used to succeeding on the very fi
rst try on anything having to do with art. “It’s clear, however, that you’re distracted.”

  I glance up at her in surprise. Am I distracted? I review my actions thus far—I thought I’d been concentrating—

  Alexander’s face fills my mind, his beautiful eyes intent on mine.

  Grandmother nods. “I think it’s time you got some answers.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Grandmother leads me down several stone staircases until we reach what must have been the very bowels of the castle. Above us, the waterfalls roar through the rock, and I glance at the smooth ceilings warily, afraid they may suddenly give under the weight of the water. The halls are dimly lit by just a few floating orbs. I don’t see any doors, only unbroken walls, as though the dungeon has been carved out of rock by some enormous creature.

  There is nothing frightening—no weapons or hulking armored men or lurking dragons—and yet, the fine hairs on my neck stand on end. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be hidden away down here, especially when one is a complete and total stranger to this world and its inhabitants.

  Just when I think I will do something truly shameful—like actually pity this man who betrayed me—she stops in front of a blank wall. Much as she did with the canvas, she touches her hand to the wall and the bright power of arcana fills the air.

  Blinding light fills the dim hallway, and after squinting and blinking through the pain, I see a doorway form. Grandmother steps to the side as the light fades.

  “I’ll be just outside,” she says, one hand on my arm. “You should have the chance to speak with him privately, but I will insist that Rowen go in with you.”

  I nod numbly, so many conflicting emotions swirling within me they’ve almost rendered me paralyzed: fear that Alexander is truly my enemy, anger that I’ve been duped, and a burning curiosity to know the truth.

  With Rowen comfortingly at my side, I cross through the doorway. The room I find beyond is a small, rounded cell, absolutely bare—no furniture or even a window. High above me, an orb glows dimly, the only source of light.

  Alexander steps out of the shadows, his face just as achingly beautiful as it was the first time I saw it in my drawing.

  “I wondered if you’d come,” he says, his voice both familiar and strange in this otherworldly place. He shakes his head. “No, that isn’t true. I begged and prayed to whomever would listen for one last chance to speak with you.”

  His tone is so resigned that I step toward him without thinking. But then I remember. “Are you really a member of the Order of the Eternal Sun?”

  His jaw flexes once, regret flaring in his eyes. “Yes.”

  Pain ripples through me, surprising in its intensity. I’d been expecting this, and yet to hear him so readily admit it is a blow. “Did you seek me out so you could hurt me—take my arcana by force?”

  He is silent for so long that I worry I will be sick all over the polished floor. “That’s a question with a complicated answer.”

  “Is it? Because it seems rather simple to me. Either you were or you weren’t.”

  “I sought you out because I knew you had an abundance of power,” he says, “and I never intended to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t, perhaps,” I say, reading in between the lines.

  “All research on your family pointed to the possibility that you held some power, but were no danger to anyone. For this reason, and for other, much more personal reasons, I didn’t report your existence to my superior.”

  He looks at me, and I know he is willing me to understand, but I don’t. I can’t. “How can you be a part of such an organization? Of people who hurt people like me … people like you?”

  His brows furrow. “It’s true I have a large store of spiritual power, but I’m fully human, I assure you.”

  He doesn’t know. I’m not sure if it helps his cause or hinders. “Only those with Sylvan blood can enter the portal.”

  Now it’s his turn to look flabbergasted. He goes still and silent for a full minute. “You’re sure? Perhaps because of my spiritual power …”

  “Though I’m not entirely sure what you mean by spiritual power, I strongly suspect it has been arcana all along.” His face looks even paler than it did before, but I refuse to pity him. “And what if you had found something about my family … about me? What if you determined I was a danger to others?”

  He shakes his head. “You aren’t. You couldn’t be.”

  “Yes, but what if?”

  He hesitates, and in that moment, I know the answer. I nod as tears prick my eyes.

  “Lucy, wait! Please,” he says, but I step through the doorway without a backward glance.

  Rowen presses against my leg as the wall behind me closes again. Grandmother waits for me, her brows furrowed in concern.

  “I’m not ready,” I tell her before she has the chance to ask, and even I am not entirely sure what I mean. Not ready to listen to him? Not ready to forgive?

  Grandmother reaches out and touches my shoulder. “No one is asking anything of you, Lucy. Certainly not me.”

  “I think I might return to my room for a moment—if that’s all right with you?”

  “Of course. Rest all you like. We don’t have any commitments until dinner.”

  Rowen stays by my side as I make my way out of the dungeon, my footsteps heavy. It seems I didn’t learn anything from Wren’s brush with death at the hands of the Order.

  Worse still, I had been falling for my own enemy.

  AFTER Lucy leaves, Alexander spends an embarrassing amount of time sitting on the cold stone floor with his head in his hands. He can still feel her energy even after she has gone, like the refreshing scent of lemons hanging in the air. Was everything he’d ever believed a lie? Lord Tyrell had told him as a boy that a Sylvani had murdered his mother. It was Lord Tyrell who’d always been quick to comfort a motherless boy, who always had wise advice when Alexander most needed it.

  And Alexander had needed it often. Neither fully Indian nor English, he’d often faced animosity from both sides. He remembers one day in particular, when he was older than a boy but not yet a man, when the other boys in his school had destroyed one of his paintings. In bright red paint, they’d written “chee chee” across the painting.

  Alexander’s rage and sorrow had been blinding. He’d destroyed the painting himself, unable to look upon the hateful word.

  He’d gone to Lord Tyrell’s house that same day, as he often did, and Lord Tyrell was able to tell almost immediately that something had upset Alexander.

  “You can tell me anything,” he’d said when Alexander hesitated in sharing something so shameful. It was humiliating to be singled out, to be forced into the same schools as pale English boys who were just as privileged as Alexander, and yet, looked down upon him as though he were little more than a servant. It was why, even now, Alexander could only tolerate the help of a housekeeper and no other servants—his father’s grand estates were torturous, but of course it would be far crueler to deprive them of their jobs.

  When Alexander finally confessed what had happened to his painting, and all the taunts he’d been enduring at school, Lord Tyrell laid a hand on his shoulder. “It pains me that you must go through this, Alexander, but it’s something that all men with talent have had to survive at one time or another. They sense your ability—your prana—even if they don’t have a name for it. They see your incredible art, your resilience despite your hardship and loss, and they hate you for it. But I see your strength, your power, your way with people, and I have a job for you that will make you forget about the petty games of children.”

  Alexander had been inducted into the Order shortly after, swelled with righteousness at the thought of fighting back against the monstrous creatures who had murdered his mother—who had stolen his childhood from him.

  What a fool he’s been.

  His father couldn’t possibly have had Sylvan blood—he would have sensed it—nor any of h
is aunts or uncles or cousins. No, it would have had to be his mother, the woman with no living kin.

  He struggles to recall everything he can about his mother—to remember her with this new piece of information—but he was only five years old when she died. His memories are like scattered shards of glass: the softness of her hair, the smell of cinnamon on her clothes, a few notes of the song she’d sing to him at night. He pushes his mind harder, tries to think of her in specific instances—like at bedtime. She would always come to tuck him in herself with a lullaby and a kiss goodnight.

  And then, as though it has been waiting for him all along, his mind offers up a single memory in perfect clarity: he’d been frightened of going to sleep one night, even after his lullaby and having been tucked in. His mother had laid her hand across his forehead as though she was checking for a fever, the smell of cinnamon hanging heavily in the air. He can still see the slant of moonlight spilling across his room, his many toys lined up like little soldiers. His mother had leaned over him and whispered, “There is nothing to be afraid of. You’ll dream of an enchanted jungle and all the creatures that once inhabited it.” His mind had instantly filled with image after image of exotic trees and birds and lizards and even the hint of a creature that could have been a dragon. It was all so clear, as though he were looking at photographs of a real jungle, as if he’d really been there.

  Remembering now, as a man, Alexander sees the truth: his mother had somehow pushed those images into his mind. She’d given him those happy thoughts, knowing his love for flora and fauna and jungles in particular at that age.

  As though that one memory was the key to unlocking others, he remembers more: watching his mother paint a trio of playful tiger cubs for his room, and to Alexander’s laughing delight, the cubs coming to life and bounding across the canvas.

  Alexander sits now in a stunned silence, the cold stone against his back. His mother had abilities—abilities he might have once attributed to an abundance of spiritual power were it not for Lucy. His stomach churns with disgust as he thinks of just how wrong he’s been all his life. But before he can mentally flay himself with thoughts of his every mistaken belief, the blinding light of a doorway appears.