Page 3 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
The question was almost enough to slow down my desire for him. Almost. I rested my hand on the wooden bench beside Tristan, my fingers inching towards his so we could touch unseen. I moved my knees from his—only an inch.
I glanced back at Aunt Arianna, and she nodded in approval as she wrapped an arm around her daughter, my other cousin, Naria. In two years, we’d both be wearing white and participating in the Revelation Ceremony together.
Naria had never gotten along with me or my sisters. She wasn’t like us in personality, temperament, or looks. All Batavia women had brown or red hair. Naria was blonde. Blonde like her father, my uncle Tarek, had been. He’d died a traitor.
“When in the heavenly realms the Gods and Goddesses dwelled,” chanted Kolaya, “Canturiel created a light so beautiful and valiant it shone day and night. The Valalumir, he named it. Every color of the rainbow could be seen inside, brighter than anything Heaven could hide. It never burned those who touched, nor blinded those who stared. Such was its beauty the sun felt less fair, for this light was brighter, kinder. The stars and moon felt their beauty wane.” The eternal flame over her head burned through every color of the rainbow, casting new tones onto the white-clad initiates all patiently waiting beneath.
Tristan took my hand, his fingers running slowly up and down the length of my palm, and instantly I was lost in the endless brown of his eyes.
The Scrolls of the Valya floated out of their honeycomb homes in the walls to be read by every Lumerian. Well, every Lumerian who was actually paying attention. Several rows away in the green ray, Lady Romula watched her grandson and me with disapproval. Sighing, I released Tristan’s hand, unrolled the scroll in my lap, and sat straighter. Just a few more hours, and we’d be without an audience.
At last, the chanting ended. The soft scraping sounds of the Valya being rerolled whistled throughout all seven rays of the temple, and soon the scrolls were flying in every direction, returning to their homes in the walls.
The Red Watcher of the Light and the Violet Watcher of the Light, veiled head to toe in their colors, joined Arkmage Kolaya on the upper dais for the ceremony.
Kolaya began calling the names of the nineteen-year-old mages and soturi-to-be. Tristan’s large silver signet ring pressed against my skin. Despite my earlier words, I suddenly couldn’t stop imagining our official engagement…being bound to Tristan for life…sharing his bed. When that happened, he’d offer me jewelry with the sigil of his Ka, and I’d give him something with mine. My stomach twisted.
“Jules is next.” Aunt Arianna tapped my shoulder. I turned to smile at her but found Naria watching Tristan with an open, hungry expression in her eyes. She’d tried to kiss him at the summer solstice the previous year. He’d rejected her, but she clearly still wanted him. I glared until she realized she’d been caught and suddenly became busy with a sapphire jewel on her gown.
“Lady Julianna Batavia,” Kolaya’s deep voice vibrated.
Hushing sounds drifted through the temple. Feet scraped against the floor in their search for stillness. Several people coughed, their wooden seats creaking as they leaned forward.
“Your Aunt Gianna,Ha Ka Mokan, would be so proud,” Arianna said quietly.
Automatically, Morgana and I repeated the words for the deceased, “Her soul freed.”
Jules stood, looking like a goddess in her white robe, and stepped onto the stage. The eternal flame flared and crackled, glowing pure white before it hissed. As Jules approached, the flame paused on red. Batavia red. Our color. A sign of good luck. It lit her wavy brown hair in a fiery red glow. My heart raced with excitement for her.
“Lady Julianna,” Arkmage Kolaya said, “what path do you choose?”
“Mage.” A glowing smile spread across Jules’s face, and my heart burst with pride. Her eyes found mine. She winked, and removed her white robes, revealing a violet, floor-sweeping gown. We’d spent weeks shopping in Urtavia for it, driving the dressmakers farther than Lethea with our demands until we’d found the perfect one.
The Watcher bowed her head, putting the white robes aside, and Jules held out her right hand. Kolaya’s ceremonial dagger reflected light as she slashed the skin above Jules’s wrist. Right slashes were for mages, left for soturi. Blood beaded on her skin. Jules pursed her lips together, but ever the perfect noble, she didn’t flinch. She glided to the Violet Watcher’s table, extending her arm. Her blood dripped into the ceremonial bowl of water. The small splash echoed through the temple.
“My oath begins here,” she said.
The Violet Watcher opened her trunk and produced a stave for Jules, a beautiful twisting of gold and silver wood from the sacred sun and moon trees. Arkmage Kolaya cupped her hands above Jules. Sparks pulsed until a golden sphere of light crowned. With a thrust of the arkmage’s hands, the golden light illuminated Jules’s body, descending to the floor where it vanished, along with the Birth Bind that had contained her power—until now.
I could barely breathe as I waited for her to raise her stave, her name magically burned into it. Now she would show off her first essence of magic. Her mother, Aunt Gianna, had been a highly respected, powerful mage, like all women of Ka Batavia, so anticipation was high throughout the temple.
But Jules dropped her stave. It hit the dais with an awkward clang.
My throat tightened, my face heating. Embarrassment came first. Red hot humiliation for Jules. I was mortified and ashamed. That wasn’t supposed to happen. No one dropped their stave, not when they were experiencing the most powerful moment of their life. This was an utter disgrace on Jules and our Ka.
It wasn’t until her stave rolled off the floor of the Chamber through the initiates sitting on the lower level and landed on the temple floor that the shame disintegrated and fear took hold of me.
Something was wrong.
Morgana grabbed my hand. “No,” she said, her voice a strangled whisper.
Jules’s eyes widened into an expression full of terror. Her lips parted.
“Why isn’t she picking it up?” I demanded. It wasn’t proper to leave a stave on the floor.
“No, no, no!” Morgana’s whisper had gone silent, but I could still sense her forming the words as her grip tightened. Her nails pierced my skin until I cried out. She’d drawn blood.
“Morgs!” I tried to wrench my hand away, but she only shushed me and held tighter as Jules screamed from the stage, a blood curdling, animalistic sound.
