A Crown of Lilies

by Melissa Ragland

  I was escorted ungently from the premises. Foolishly, I struggled, but I was unarmed and two grown men easily overpowered me. On the steps, one of them grew tired of my disobedience and backhanded me across the face with a mailed fist, sending me sprawling to the cobblestones, my head spinning. Furious, I scrambled to my feet, whirling on them and spitting on their boots. Two pairs of Alesian eyes regarded me beneath their helms.

  “Traitors,” I hissed at them.

  I stalked back to the hitching post where Valor waited, eyeing me curiously. The acolyte muttered another prayer, once again holding out his hand for coin. “You’ll not get a single copper from me,” I snarled as I shoved past him and climbed into my saddle. Guards, priests, and commoners alike watched as I spurred my mount and disappeared down the street.

  My mother examined my split lip with disapproval written on her face.

  “They destroyed everything,” I lamented through clenched teeth. Anger still burned in my chest, made all the more potent by my public humiliation. “The statue, the wheat, it’s all gone.”

  “You shouldn’t have made such a scene,” she scolded gently. “We agreed to maintain a low profile.”

  “I couldn’t help it. He was just so damned…self-righteous!” The priest’s beady black eyes and wheedling voice haunted my thoughts. “And for the city guard to betray their own people like that?” I couldn’t find a word crude enough.

  “They are doing what they have sworn to do: enforce the law. The King decreed this shift. They are just following orders.”

  I hated that she was right. It ate at my already festering heart. There was so much anger pent up inside me, writhing and seeking an outlet. I excused myself and spent the rest of the evening in the garden, drilling furiously. I channeled my rage into every swing of my sword, every sweep of my dagger, every pivot and lunge. It took hours to burn all the hate from my veins, but I refused to stop until it was done. By the end, my hands trembled. Soaked in sweat, I heaved the cool night air and let my sword hang at my side, eyes fixed on the moon glowing overhead.

  Tell me how to fix this, I pleaded to the Mother. Tell me how to stop them.

  Once again, my gods were silent.

  Chapter 15

  Fall marched onward, and the bastardization of the white city only worsened. At first, there were reports of new converts scourging themselves before the Lodestone. The runes glowed, the rumors said, when a supplicant’s blood splashed on its white face. Men and women prostrated themselves before it, and before the golden idol of Al’Rahim that had been hung above the stone. Great fortune was said to befall those who did so, though none of our sources could find any direct beneficiary of said windfalls. It didn’t matter. The people believed. The crowds at the rededicated temple grew, and the religious fever spread.

  Our faith is something quiet, something understood in the soul. It is the foundation of our way of life in that we don’t even consider it something apart from ourselves. It just is. The lessons Adulil brought us are ingrained so deeply, they are taken as common understanding rather than any type of faith. The land provides for us, so we must tend the land and preserve it. Animals bear our burdens, aid us in our daily lives, and so we must care for them with kindness. We are no more important to this world than the oldest tree or newest blade of grass. It is ours to share, to experience, to appreciate, and then to leave, as all things must.

  This Al’Rahim, this Divine Origin, was altogether different. It allowed people to feel they had a divine purpose in this life, that if they dedicated themselves earnestly enough, they could touch the face of God. It gave them a feeling of power, of control over their lives. As much as I detested it, I understood why the common people were drawn to it. Life could be desperately cruel.

  So could men.

  A contingent of Persican soldiers arrived to take over the protection of the temple and its priests during the period of transition. Shortly after their installation as a dominating force on the streets of Litheria, rumors of cleansings began. I never saw them with my own eyes, but I do not doubt the reports that filtered in from my mother’s informants. It only took one person, one quiet conversation with an Origin priest, to set things in motion. Neighbors informed on each other, eager to ingratiate themselves with their new god. The Persican soldiers would appear and drag the accused party to the temple, where they had a choice: repent for their many sins and prostrate themselves before Al’Rahim, or be cleansed in the myriad of ways laid out in their holy texts.

  To my people’s credit, at first, they resisted. Some, to their deaths. We didn’t believe, at first, that the priests would do it. We thought Amenon would speak up, put an end to the madness, but Crofter’s Castle remained silent. Public floggings became the norm, men and women tied to posts and beaten with whips and canes. Many relented and bowed down before the Lodestone with bloody backs.

  Some dedicated souls held out, after which the manner of their cleansing became a private affair, conducted by the priests behind closed doors. I’d seen the serigraphs. I’d read the texts. Even the most steadfast Alesians broke, then. A few, though, a few were accused of sins beyond redemption. Those were cleansed until they begged, publicly in the square before the temple, for an end to their suffering.

  The priests humbly obliged.

  The first to burn was a woman named Theresa. She worked in the brothels in Dockside, same as hundreds of others. Why her, with so many others just the same? She had refused to service one of the Persican soldiers. This, of course, was not common knowledge. Instead, they circulated rumors of her licentiousness, her lack of morality. It was widely claimed she had murdered her own bastard babes the moment they slipped from her womb, only to lay with more men the same night.

  Our reports told us she was barely conscious when they put the torch to her pyre.

  The second and third burned together, a pair of elderly men who had been lovers for many long years. I held Aubrey as he wept in fear at the news. After that, most didn’t try to resist. I couldn’t blame them. Many had families, people who relied on them to stay alive. The Mother would forgive. Adulil would forgive. They were only words, or so we told ourselves.

  In light of the King’s conversion, several of the lesser noble houses and wealthy families followed suit, desperate to stay in the Crown’s good graces. To their credit, the great Houses held firm. Ours was the blood of the Seven, as pure as any on the earth. We could not betray the lineage that granted us the right to rule.

  As Samhain approached, we planned. Montar and Korent had postponed their shipments, begging a variety of excuses for the delay in delivery. A few, though, had already been sent and intercepted. I couldn’t bring myself to ask how many lives it had cost.

  Aubrey proved himself valuable. His resolve doubled after the burning of the elderly couple, and he provided almost daily reports out of Cambria. Usually, it was nothing of note, but one day he fidgeted horrendously through our entire lesson. By the time his father left us to our after-session wine, he was nearly bursting. I sank into my armchair, gesturing at him to do the same. He ignored me and began pacing.

  “Hydrax is mobilizing.” The words practically leapt from his mouth. “One of our scout patrols along the border reported six hundred horse and nearly three thousand men. Just beyond our lands, in the southern mountains, Hydrax is rallying its strength.”

  “How long ago was this?” I asked, concerned.

  “A few weeks past, by now.”

  “I need to go,” I stood quickly, setting down my untouched wine.

  He grabbed my arm as I turned to leave, fear plain in his eyes. “Elivya, what is happening?” The events of the last month had rattled him to his core.

  I was eager to race home but forced myself to pause, grasping his shoulders in as reassuring a gesture as I could manage. “Soon, Aubrey. I promise.”

  My parents exchanged a wordless glance when I shared the news. For once, my own paltry resources had outpaced my mother’s network. She stood, pacing slowly in
the study. I couldn’t bear the silence.

  “What are we going to do?” I pressed impatiently. “If Solomon convinces the King to order the western provinces to stand down, the entire Hydraxian army could be here before winter.”

  She stopped and considered me, then my father. “Elivya, leave us.”

  “But-”

  “Now.”

  I stood, exasperated, and stalked from the room. I considered retracing my steps silently to listen at the door, but I couldn’t know how quickly they would call me back, and I didn’t want to be caught spying. Instead, I paced in the main hall for the better part of an hour. By the time my parents emerged from their confidences, I was strung tighter than a new bow.

  My mother folded her hands carefully before her, green eyes piercing mine. “If we do this, if we continue on this path, our House will likely be forfeit to lesser hands.” Her voice echoed slightly in the vast room, solemn and firm. “Your future, everything we have, it will all be at risk.”

  “What path?” I whispered.

  “We cannot afford to wait. Hydrax has forced our hand. We must rally our resources and make a play.” She struggled to force the words from her mouth. “Amenon must be removed.”

  My father’s haunted eyes watched me. “And you?” I asked him, my voice shaking. The King was once his friend, a brother in arms.

  “The man I knew is gone.”

  I nodded, the enormity of it settling like a stone in my chest. Treason. We were talking about treason. Terror gripped me, but I had set myself on this course. Whatever was required, I had sworn to find the fortitude to see it through. There was no turning back.

  “How?”

  Our carefully-vetted list was finally put to use, and a new guest list was drawn up. Five days hence, we would throw a private Samhain masquerade. Those who came would be in open defiance of the King’s decree just by attending. At dinner, we would lay our plans, and ourselves, bare before them. Much would depend on our previous observations. If we had misjudged any of them, it only took one to betray us.

  Aubrey and his father were among the names on the list. When I told them of the invitation at our next lesson, they looked slightly discomfited but accepted nonetheless. Aside from the King, Augustus was my father’s closest friend.

  I distracted my whirlwind thoughts with the details of the masquerade. Samhain is a celebration of the harvest and of endings. Just as the wheat ages and is threshed in the field, so are all things brought to an end. Every life ceases to be. At the fall equinox, we celebrate the bounty and the reflection of lives gone by. It is on this night, in the late autumn, that we revere the spirits of our ancestors.

  The dress I’d commissioned from Sadie was delivered the night before the gala. I summoned Shera to my chambers and waited until she arrived, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “I’ve a gift for you,” I smiled at her, gesturing to the box on my bed. Her eyes widened and she approached me slowly. “Open it,” I urged.

  Timid hands hesitated a moment before pulling at the ribbon and lifting off the lid. She gasped quietly as she withdrew the gown from its wrappings, deep emerald with black brocade on the bodice, two horses embroidered back to back. With it, black satin ribbons for her hair and a black lace domino.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s much too fine for me, miss. Where could I ever wear such a thing?”

  “With me, tomorrow night.”

  Brown eyes stared at me, all propriety evaporating. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am. We’ll have to dye your hair as well, though I’ve been told it’s easily done with a bit of ink.” She continued to gape, clutching the satin gown to her. “You’re to be my escort, as I’m in need of a twin for my costume to make sense.” I shrugged. “If you wish, that is.”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed quickly, throwing her arms about me and pinning the dress between us. I hugged her tightly, my heart swelling. She had helped pull me back from the precipice after the assault, her kindness and surprising tenacity driving away the abyss of despair. For one night, at least, I could make her my sister in all but name.

  We dyed her hair that night in a small basin in the privy. With Ellen and Poppy to assist, we did a decent job of it and made only a bit of a mess. I was glad we’d done it a day ahead, as the ink stained some of the skin around her scalp. Poppy assured us that with some lavender oil and a good scrubbing, it would be barely visible in time for the masquerade.

  The day of, we went about our routine as usual. It was important to maintain appearances. I woke at dawn to run drills in the garden. My parents and I closeted ourselves in the study to review our plans one final time. I rode with Gabe to Aubrey’s for my afternoon lesson, returning home before sunset.

  Shera waited in my chambers, chatting animatedly as Ellen twisted the satin ribbons into her hair. From behind, I imagined she looked the spitting image of me. Her brown hair shimmered a deep sable, pinned into an elaborate coif that concealed the fact that her locks were much shorter than my own. “I see you’ve started without me,” I commented, amused.

  They helped me into my own matching gown, teaming up to work my hair into a similar style with identical ribbons. When we donned our masks, it was like facing a mirror. The only giveaway lay in our eyes, but we’d both darkened our lids with kohl to deepen the dominos’ mystery. I was a bit taller, but not by much. She was a bit more feminine in figure, but not by much. To a casual observer, we were identical.

  “Who exactly are we meant to be, miss?” she asked as we admired our handiwork.

  “My great-great-grandmothers Eleanor and Dianna.” Technically, only Eleanor was my great-great-grandmother, but her twin sister was known to have been fully involved in the rearing of my great grandfather.

  “Which one am I?”

  I smiled. “Which one would you like to be?”

  She considered. “Eleanor, I think.”

  “Then I shall be Dianna.”

  Her face fell a bit, and she dropped her eyes. “I cannot thank you enough, miss. This is a greater gift than any I could imagine.”

  I took her hands in mine. “First, you must stop calling me miss.” Both she and Ellen laughed softly. “And second, you are a better friend to me than I deserve.” She met my eyes when I gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. “Thank me by enjoying this night as best you can, and keeping your eyes and ears open.”

  Sobered, she nodded, and we made our way downstairs to await our guests.

  The evening held an undercurrent of tension, despite the lively music and dancing. Shera, for her part, seemed to enjoy the latter, proving herself a capable partner. I abstained for the most part, though Aubrey and I made a good show of it for the sake of appearances. Everyone we had invited had come, which was a good start. I noted small clusters talking quietly, among them the Oristei family, whose cautious disposition made me uneasy.

  Finally, dinner was called, and our small flock of masked companions filed into the dining hall. Greta had laid a fabulous feast for us, and everyone dug in heartily. The time dragged, and I itched in my satin gown. Shera sat to my right, chatting happily with Ulrich ben Oristei. Across from me sat a silent Aubrey, picking at his food. I watched the rest of the guests as discreetly as I might beneath my domino and fretted. The meal seemed to last for an eternity.

  I was reciting Elan poetry in my mind in an attempt to calm my nerves when my father stood. The last of the dishes had been cleared and the guests fell silent over their after-dinner wine, the air thick with anticipation. Everyone assembled knew they were about to discover the true purpose of the evening.

  “Tonight, we give thanks,” my father intoned solemnly, raising his glass. “To the Mother and her son Adulil, who bless the harvest and guide our people through even the darkest of times.” A murmur of assent rippled around the table.

  “Dark times, indeed,” Augustus huffed from his chair.

  “You are here because you value the soul of our nation over o
bedience to one man,” he forged on. Another murmur, this one less acquiescent. “Amenon has long ruled Alesia with a steady, fair hand. I rode at his side into battle, slept in the mud with him on the fields of Istra, guarded his life as my own. He was my brother,” his voice faltered. “My friend.” A great silence filled the room as he collected himself. “That man is all but gone. Poisoned in his own body by a foreign snake who seeks to make Alesia yet another puppet nation for his god-king in Persica.”

  My eyes flitted around, attempting to read the faces of those around me. It was cursedly difficult with the masks. “We are the scions of Adulil and his Six,” he pressed on quietly. “What do we intend to do about it?”

  It was a long time before anyone dared to speak.

  “You would have us defy the King?” Leon’s father Ian ben Therus broke the silence, his timid voice edged with disbelief.

  “You saw him at the audience,” Brendan ben Fumandrel countered softly. “He has gone mad with grief.”

  “He is still the King,” one lord of Guillar pointed out firmly.

  “What kind of king lets the enemy burn his people in the streets?” It was one of our kin, an elder lord of Estentis House, who grumbled.

  My mother stood slowly. “Amenon has forsaken his bloodline. He has renounced Adulil and all but handed this nation over to a foreign power.” Eyes fell to her. Back straight, chin high, she radiated confidence. “I believe Alesia is more than just a throne. I believe she can survive any number of hurts, but the loss of her soul is not one of them.”

  “What is it you are proposing?” Augustus asked gently.

  She spared him a glance. “If things continue to escalate, we will have a second war in our lifetime. Thousands more will die. Those of you old enough to remember will recall the brutality and the horror of it.” I noted several jaws tense. “I would prevent that at all costs,” she added softly.

  “Your ask, Nefira.” It was Reyus ben Oristei who spoke up, impatience in his voice.