The Sunderlands

by Anastasia King

  I furrow my brows, but she wouldn’t know it because of my mask. I didn’t even look at the damned thing. I noticed the blue one first.

  I pull myself out of her grip. “So, how do I look? Like something from a nightmare?” Of course, I’d pick that mask, that persona, and not even mean to.

  She laughs and saunters past me, flaring her hips with her strides. “Positively demonic.”

  I laugh again. For real this time. “Might be. You don’t know.”

  “I like her.” The Death Spirit chuckles too.

  “Hmmm, I think I do know.” She widens her eyes. “You must be a devil if you look so divine.”

  “That was lame,” I chide.

  “It was the truth.” She looks down her masked nose at me.

  “Gods and devils, they’re real.” She lowers her voice. “Fae and nymphs and spooky voices… they’re just fun.”

  I jolt at the mention of spooky voices. There’s no way she knew about what I heard last night. She glides down another hallway that takes us deeper into the center of the palace. I follow her, not quite sure where this conversation or her directions are taking us. Another set of doors and another long hall.

  “Monsters aren’t real, Keres.” She opens one last white latticed door and sunshine floods into the dimly lit hall. I follow her across the threshold and into a garden. “They’re just people wearing masks.”

  “Princess Keres,” A sultry male voice stops me from replying or even getting a good look around. It’s noisy, and the sun is beating down on us. Sweat beads on my brow. The violet eyed male with indigo hair, Rydel, steps out of a conversation with two other masked people. He’s not wearing a mask.

  “Welcome to the Pleasure Gardens!” He draws my attention before I can analyze their putrid green, bug-like masks.

  I follow his outstretched hands and finally drink in the truly baffling party. Nobody is an animal of prey anymore. They’re all creatures of myth. Things I’ve never seen before in any book. Things I’ve only ever heard about in Attica’s stories.

  “Some tea? You’re just in time,” Rydel offers.

  “Oh, shit!” Nadia stomps a tiny foot into the lush grass as she checks her pocket watch. “I’m late. Must go meet my sisters! Bye, Keres,” She grabs me and pulls my mask to hers, feigning a kiss. She runs off into the swaying crowd of monster masks.

  “Bye.” A little off balance, I turn back to Rydel. He folds his hands behind his back, awaiting my reply.

  “Greetings, Rydel. How are you this morning? Yes, tea would be great.” I try my best to sound like a noble and not think of Riordan and Ivaia.

  He plucks a bone-white teacup off a banquet table full of them and pushes it into my hands. I sip from it.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t tea.” I cough at the sharp sweetness of the liquor.

  He cracks up laughing. “We’re calling it Faery wine.” He gestures to the other partygoers but no one notices.

  “Have you heard of the Fae before?”

  “Recently, yes.” I sip from the teacup again, already feeling dizzy. “Why do you call it that? Is it magic?” I scowl at the innards of my cup, again forcing thoughts of Ivaia and Riordan to the bottom.

  “According to lore, if you drink or eat anything in the Faeries’ realm, you belong to them.”

  “And so, I drink from your cup. Do you think to own me now?” My mouth loosens and I smile at my own brashness.

  He opens his arms. “Only to get you really drunk. That’s exactly what Faery Wine will do.”

  “So,” I smack my lips together after swallowing the last drop and clumsily placing my empty teacup back on the table. “Where’s Queen Hero?”

  “Do you wish to see her?” He asks.

  I don’t know why I asked. I’m supposed to be doing something right now…

  “She’s installed a chaise for me behind her seat at the head of the table.” He gestures to the banquet laden with teacups. It stretches on throughout the Pleasure Gardens, most likely to the other end of it. Hero’s chair is not even in sight. An array of ghoulish and impish masks blocks the view. People laugh. Someone juggles. Two girls are kissing, their masks on the ground by their feet. I look back to Rydel.

  “Did you mean to say 'besides’?”

  “No, behind her chair. So that I might always be near to her ear, but out of sight when it matters.”

  “And why would you need to be in either place?” I fold my arms across my chest, and his eyes follow the movement to my breasts. Maybe they look too good in this dress. Or maybe he’s already feeling the liquor. I am.

  “You’re a vision,” He smiles, still staring below my eyes.

  “You’re her adviser then?” I attempt to regain his attention.

  He flashes me a tempting smile, “No, I am an ambassador. From Elistria.”

  My brows shoot up. “Oh. I thought you were from my Kingdom.”

  Fire spews out of the mouth of someone’s dragon mask, followed by the audience’s applause. The smoke draws my eye to the orchestra of stringed instruments buzzing like insects in a balcony above.

  He shrugs and walks closer. “You’ll find that one’s allies are often closer than you think, and too often one’s enemies are closer.”

  I look into his violet eyes. No one could deny he is stunning. His golden skin is so rosy in the sun and his smile beams brighter. He’s dreamy. He takes on the light of day like a silken robe… and oh, fuck, I am drunk.

  “Are you implying you’re an enemy of our kingdom?” I ask, trying to rub my eyes but forgetting about the Faery mask.

  “As much as you are. As well as you, I am religious. My loyalties lie with the Gods above any mortals, queen or consort.” His voice is too calm and too loud all at the same time. Sunlight glaring off the clouds and sparkling in the faery wine nearly blinds me. I must get out of here, but he just mentioned the Gods. My thoughts hiccup as I try to string them together.

  “Where is…” I feel faint. “What.” It doesn’t come out the full question I intended it to be.

  “Coroner, are you feeling ill?” I feel Rydel’s radiating presence warming my backside. His arms are around me. Dizzy and disoriented, I force myself to refocus but find no comfort in the jeering, malicious faces spiraling around the garden. My head swings back and I catch my breath as my full weight drops into Rydel’s arms. Everything goes dark.

  A moment later, I’m awake. Still in the Pleasure Gardens, still surrounded by organized chaos. What the fuck am I supposed to be doing right now? My head hurts.

  “Good morning,” Rydel seems overly happy. I focus on his violet eyes.

  “Keres,” I hear his voice, but his mouth isn’t moving. “You’re in danger here.”

  I blink at him. His smile fades as his eyes bore into mine and his voice slips into my thoughts. “Unless you tell me the truth.”

  “I’m no liar,” I think back.

  “Are you here to harm Hero or to help her?” I feel his fist tighten around my wrist.

  “You answer that first.”

  His jaw drops but jumps back up into a wide smile. “I am here to serve our kind.”

  That’s a thought the Death Spirit and I can both agree on. “I am as well.” I fight the urge to break eye contact and use my voice.

  “Where is Hero’s knight?”

  “She killed him.”

  “Where is Paragon Kade?”

  “So inquisitive, you are.”

  “If you want to help Hero, help me.” I goad.

  He stands and pulls me to my feet.

  “If you want to help Hero, help Osira.” He releases me from his embrace and all memory of what I should have been doing comes back. My senses too. Reeling from the jolt into instant sobriety, I lose all my Faery wine on the sweet-smelling grass. He hands me his handkerchief. I wipe my mouth and he lifts a hand to insist I keep it. As I turn to go, I overhear someone suggesting the hibiscus tea instead of the chamomile to someone else.

  “It’s delicious.”

 
The man lifts his mask to take a sip.

  “Did you hear anything else about the beast? It has overrun Trethermor,” The other man says, daintily gesturing with his own half-full teacup. Fully sober.

  I try to catch any slur in their words, leaning closer just as the other spits out his tea. “The apostates! Have they fled?”

  I take a step back and look to the other for a hint of a smile at tricking his friend into drinking the Faery wine.

  “No one knows. How’s the chamomile?”

  “Truly delicious. Spot on.” He smacks his lips together before kissing his cup for another sip.

  “Glad I take my tonics from Mormont here in the castle. Poor sods. Wow, but this chamomile is beautiful. What an aroma!”

  “Blessed for the Veil ritual, I heard from Arlessa.”

  I look back to Rydel but he’s gone. No one else in the Pleasure Gardens appears to be drunk or sick. What the fuck? I snatch the teacup from the blubbering idiot and finish it off—

  “Oy! Miss, there’s plenty to go around.”

  A girl beside me cracks up laughing.

  I push the empty teacup back into his still-poised hands and stomp off.

  Did that arse fucking poison me!? Was it magic? I don’t know who Rydel truly is or what his powers are but after that drunken mind-fuck, I do know one thing: that was the best chamomile tea I ever had.

  I run from the Pleasure Gardens and when I’m far enough away, I remove my mask and look at it. My anger melts. It’s not what I expected. It’s gorgeous. The color is pale as the moon and the eyes are almond shaped. Covered in a sheer violet fabric, like Rydel’s eyes. The cheekbones were hewn to perfection, sharp and striking. And the whole thing glistens, glowing even in the dimly lit hallway. I don’t want to carry it around all day, so I put it on the floor and lean it against the wall. My long dress swishes past it as I turn the corner of the hall. I’ll get answers from Rydel later.

  I retrace the way Nadia came to bring me here and find my way out of the palace. The village roads are laden with Elves. Orb-like eyes bobbing in a sea of faces. A male Elf catches my attention. His hair looks like liquid it’s so shiny. The length of it washes over his shoulders, pouring down his back. He wears no top, only loose-fitting trousers, and of course, nothing on his feet. His eyes train on three swords toppling blade over hilt in the air. He catches one and then another in an odd pattern, tossing them back up again, eyes never wavering. I wonder why he wasn’t performing in the Pleasure Gardens.

  A crowd is watching him. Suddenly, the blades are snakes, balled up in his hands, then uncoiled in the air. Then, they’re rings of gold, silver, and bronze— ablaze with a blue fire. He catches them and isn’t burned. He releases them and they spin above his head in flames flourishing like halos. I’m startled by a hefty female shoving past me and realize I’m watching from the middle of the road. I look back to him and he catches all three rings before tossing them all at once. They burst into feathers, taking flight as large birds. One white, one black, one red.

  I applaud him, catching his eyes which I realize now are mismatched colors. One is brown, the other grayish-blue. He bows to me and I don’t know what else to do besides smile.

  “Splendid tricks!” I applaud. “Was that magic?”

  “Of a kind.” He beams.

  “Where did you learn to perform?” I ask.

  “In the North.” His smile fades. “The village, Falten. There’s an institution there where I developed my talents.”

  In the North? “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Falten lies in the Ressid Province.”

  “Yes, along the coast.” He recalls his birds and they land on his hand, one at a time, transforming back into rings. He pushes them onto his wrist like bangles. “Perhaps, you’ll visit there one day.”

  “The world of Aureum is a large place,” I turn to leave. “Perhaps, I will when I’m ready to explore it.” We bow and curtsy respectively, and I depart.

  Back on the path toward the temple, I devote my attention to the map Hero marked for me. Not far now. I flow with the bustling crowd and count the veiled faces. More than half the market-square denizens are clothed in black, donning veils that cover only half their faces— right down to beneath their eyes. The Veil Ritual, I assume. It means something to me that the entire realm of Ro’Hale’s kingdom is observing the Holy Holiday, while those in political leadership are having a masked tea party behind the castle walls. As I near the temple, a bout of nerves halts me.

  My eyes wander up the towering spire, squinting in the sunlight. The sounds of villagers chattering and the smell of freshly baked bread fade from my awareness. Feeling small is becoming commonplace. Feeling awed? A crisp, refreshing sentiment.

  The temple walls are black glistening stone. Glistening is not a good enough word… I imagine diamonds were somehow crushed and painted into the walls. Or maybe stars hurtled from the heavens to earth and crashed into the temple— shattering into billions of still-lit fragments against the walls. The sunlight reflects so dazzlingly I wish I had a veil too.

  The doors are heavy, and they moan as I push both my hands against the sleek black wood. They grind against the stone floor, so I only push them open far enough to squeeze myself through. I push them closed again and face the altar.

  It’s dark in here, but I like it. I’m sure if I made a sound it would echo. The temple is cavernous. Large candles decorate every available surface; wax melting and pooling on the floor. Pews have been toppled over and shoved in disarray, like someone’s been flipping them in anger. Heat flushes my skin from the warmth of a thousand candles. And I smell sage. A vague mist engulfs the entire sanctum, blurring the edges and corners. The ceiling vaults up and up and up. I have no doubt the spire tip is its end, but I cannot pierce the veil of darkness beyond the candlelight. A lone white tree springs up behind the altar from a patch of black soil. No leaves, just bare branches the color and girth of bones.

  A guttural growl rents the peace like a torn curtain. I’ve entered the holiest of holies and pissed off the monster living within. Heavy paws canter toward me from the shadows. Panting breath and a snarl sound to my right.

  I do not flinch. I have never feared a wolf. This one is dreadful, but I know him. He growls at me again, demanding I fear him. But it soothes me in the way thunder soothes a desert. If I close my eyes, I’ll be here again— in her mind. Leaning against the thick fur and knotting my fingers into it. My breathing slows as drops of blood and tears tumble down my cheeks. The open wounds on my eyelids sting, but the creature licks away the tears: A Hound.

  “Cesarus.” A child’s voice silences the wolf.

  It yawns, baring its jagged teeth, and turns away from me. I watch its hindquarters, letting out a sigh as its giant haunches skulk toward the altar. What a glorious beast. Larger than the Gryphon King.

  I take a step forward and swear the flames on every candle burn brighter. I stop and they dim.

  Another step, another flash. I walk and the light expands, shooing the darkness from the room.

  “Keres.” The child speaks again. She tries my name a few times. “Keres. Kehr-us. Care us. Will you? Care for us, Keres?” She asks timidly.

  “Osira?” I scan the fallen pews and altar. A girl half my height and fragile in build, emerges from the shadows. She’s naked beneath a sheer black veil that covers her entire body from balding scalp to toe. Her eyes are callused with grayish blue scales. This is not natural blindness. This is robbery of sight. Theft of the eyes.

  “Am I still Osira? I hear so many voices in my head. So many names. Yours too, Keres who will care for us,” She says.

  Cesarus growls at me, but takes his place beside her, making her seem even smaller.

  “The Gods cannot change who you are. They simply use you,” I say.

  “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy using your God’s gift.” The Death Spirit chimes in with my thoughts. I ignore it.

  “Who am I? So frail a youth, the sublime age of three and ten. Ruined,
scarred. Reformed into nothing but a tool. What is Osira besides theirs now?” Her voice grows in urgency while getting weaker.

  Three and ten? That’s old for an Oracle. “The Gods usually choose a child aged seven or eight to be an Oracle. A pure age. At the latest, ten. Three and ten seems an age at which the Gods would set aside an Oracle and let her rest. Am I mistaken?”

  She smiles beneath the veil. Her opened eyes take in nothing of the brilliant candlelight which hasn’t dimmed since I approached her.

  “No, you are not. I made it through my purest years unscathed. Thought I was free of the paranoia of being chosen.” Her lips tremble, “When I thought I’d made it beyond the ridge of my youth, the Gods ambushed me. I lost everything.” She’s still smiling even as her voice crumbles. “And then I gained other things like divine purpose. Or so Dorian says.” Her voice is as small as she is, even monotonous at times.

  “Dorian?”

  “I,” A male voice vibrates off the walls. His creamy robes swish the mist away from his feet. A hood drawn above his head, and a veil ends just below the eyes. I see nothing of his tall figure, and only half of his long face, but his voice is beguiling.

  “Princess Keres.” He bows. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Osira whimpers nervously, clutching her arms to her chest and bending to the ground. “No!”

  “What’s wrong?” I rush to her side. Cesarus allows me near without a growl and begins pawing at her veil, nearly removing it.

  “No, Cesarus. You know she must,” Dorian reprimands the wolf pacing beside her. I lift her chin, seeking her eyes. They’re wild, flitting open and closed, rolling back in her head.

  “Dorian?”

  “It’s a vision.” He stoops and takes her by the shoulders, looking, I presume, into her eyes. His mouth tightens as he reads her blank expression. Osira collapses in his arms and convulses. He scoops her up and lays her on the large stone altar. She writhes as if in ecstasy and we step away from her. For what feels like hours, she whispers in ragged breathy moans and a divine tongue. Cesarus kneels at the side of the altar, eying his tortured owner.

  “What’s she saying?” I look to Dorian.