Page 27 of Heir Of Sun And Moon
My lips pinch together as I survey him. His interest in mysleeping habits,as he called them, can’t simply be because he wants to know if Gosston is speaking truthfully. I know how Daje feels about me, and I know how he feels about sex. The older we’ve gotten, the more I’ve begrudgingly recognized that I have never seen Daje evenappearto court other women. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t, by any means, and I never inquire about his sex life, but it’s part of the reason I am more discreet with my own. Sure, it’s probably not the best look for the royal family if their princess is fucking whoever she pleases openly, but even more so, I don’t want to hurt Daje’s feelings. Sex for me is purely a release and a way to feel powerful without magic. I don’t repeat sex partners because I don’t want any attachments forming when my attention is so firmly fixed on other things. Sex for Daje has meaning, especially if it were to happen with me.
“That is none of your business,” I finally answer.
He scoffs and shakes his head, turning to look away from me. I’ve steeled myself against the words and actions of others through many years of practice, but Daje has always had an easier time getting under my shields. It squeezes something inside me when we don’t happen to see eye to eye on things.
“I know you still view me as that little girl you first met, crying in a field because the other children called her broken,” I say, leaning forward slightly, “but I am not that little girl anymore. I don’t need you to protect me from things that aren’t actually threats.”
“You don’t believe tarnishing your reputation with rumors isn’t threatening?” he rumbles. “Bahira, if something happens to your brother, or if he simply decides he doesn’t want to be king, and you’re asked to take the throne, you’ll have to deal with these rumors then. The council—”
“Nothing is going to happen with Nox, and I don’t give a shit what the council thinks.”
“Do you care about whatIthink?” he asks, his voice low and woven with a hint of desperation that fills the space between us.
“Of course I do,” I acknowledge, “but, as I mentioned before, details about who I may or may not be fucking are not something you should expect to have access to.” Daje bristles, his hand gripping the back of the bench tighter. “And if you interfere, if you try to step in and act like my savior, all it shows everyone else is that Ineedsomeone to save me. It confirms what the council, the men who propose marriage, and the gossipers say about me—that I can’t do it on my own.” The words feel rushed, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to make Daje understand. “I need to prove to these people that I amjustas capable,justas powerful as they are, even without my magic.”
He stares at me, his gaze relaying far too much about what he’s thinking as the carriage begins to slow down. When we’ve nearly come to a stop, he leans over the middle threshold, a determined look on his face. “You wouldn’t have to prove anything with me.”
We stop moving and sit in the uncomfortable, stilted silence for a few moments before a knock rasps on the outside of the door. I move before Daje does, unlatching it and taking the hand offered by the mage outside to step down. Straightening my spine, I roll my shoulders back, catching my mother’s eye as Daje steps out of the carriage and joins me by my side. Her eyes bounce between the two of us before a slow, playful smile tilts her lips. Gods help me. My mother believes that Daje will be the man I end up marrying. His glaring devotion to me is already a positive checkmark for him on her imaginary list of positive suitor qualities. What she—or anyone else except maybe my father—doesn’t understand is that, while Daje is a great man and friend, I can’t force myself to feel more for him. I don’t want to be in a relationship just for the sake of being in one.
I yearn to be with someone who challenges me. I want to feel like I’m standing with them at the edge of the cliffs by the ocean, peering over into the turbulent waters below, in those heart-pounding moments before we jump. And I don’t feel that with Daje. He is the one who would pull me away from the edge instead of jumping with me because he’s more worried about my safety than anything else. And it isn’t as if that is a bad thing—a part of me hates that his kindness and devotion isn’t enough for me.
I blow out a pained breath, shaking my head faintly as we make our way up the steps. Built from wood and stone, the temple is completely covered in a rainbow of petalum flowers, including the pointed roof. It’s a collage of colors that even in the faint twilight of the morning stand out vibrantly in the rich green of the forest. The flowers smell like honey and lemon, the scent of them coating the air for miles. Inside the temple, long trailing heart ivy hangs from the wooden beams running across the ceiling. The thin stems and heart-shaped leaves create a waterfall effect of differing lengths dangling over us as we walk. White stone lines the ground and inner walls, creeping vines of jasmine and wisteria growing along them. Carved wooden benches are set on either side of the center aisle we walk on, leading to three steps and then a dais where the Flame Ceremony is performed.
My mother and father move up the steps and stand near a small table that the Cauldron of Vires sits on. On the other side of the table—opposite of my parents—is a young girl. Her brown hair is tied elegantly in an updo, and an overly frilly pink dress drapes down her small frame and onto the floor. If her slight scowl is any indication, the dress wasn’t her choice.
I take my seat in the first row on the right, along with Daje and half of the council; the other half sit in the first row to the left with the girl’s parents. At a second glance, I see that the two women sitting there are not actually her parents. They wear the dark purple and black uniform of those who work at the orphanage. My gaze goes back to the girl, noticing how she stands with her spine straight and shoulders rolled back. It’s a defensive posture I recognize from myself, a way to appear more confident than you feel.
Low murmurs around me draw me out of my thoughts. Anyone in the kingdom is welcome to attend Flame Ceremonies, and within a few moments, the temple is packed with people. My father begins the ceremony by tapping his staff on the dais three times, silencing the crowd and garnering their attention.
“Welcome! Welcome everyone,” he starts, his voice booming and echoing off of the stone. “We come today to honor young Starla as she drops her blood into the Cauldron of Vires as many mages before her have done and as many after her will.”
My father steps forward, producing a small silver dagger from the sheath on his hip. The dagger has been passed down from ruler to ruler, its only purpose for use in situations where blood must be drawn. Set in an intricately crafted black stone hilt, an old spell is attached to the dagger, one which makes it painless for whoever is pricked by it. Flame Ceremonies are always performed by the current monarch and before my ancestors took over as rulers—a change that happened after The War Of Five Kingdoms—it had always been the queen of Void Magic. There was only ever one wielder of the powerful magic at a time, always female, and according to our ancient texts, when a descendant of that family line was deemed worthy, the magic would transfer over to them. The only indication that it was time for a transfer of magic was during the Flame Ceremony. When the female descendant dropped her blood into the Cauldron of Vires, the flame would turn blue.
The ancient sigil of the former line of queens is etched into the metal on the front of the cast iron cauldron that the little girl bravely holds her finger over. My father lightly cradles Starla’s hand in his, bringing his other hand holding the dagger up and to her finger tip. With a wink, he pricks her finger and turns her hand over the cauldron. Blood slowly wells, and the temple grows quiet in anticipation for that single bead to show what magic the little girl has.
I watch as the fat droplet finally lets go and plummets into the cauldron. A second goes by, then three. My heart beats frantically in my chest as I lean forward from the bench, seeing Daje’s head turn to me out of the corner of my eye. Low murmurs begin to resonate in the temple. Then, directly over the cauldron, a small flame sparks.
Chapter Sixteen: Rhea
Themetallicscentofblood is finally gone from the tower. I am unsure if it’s something I imagined or if it’s because I’ve kept the balcony doors and tower windows open for as long as possible each day. Either way, I am no longer hit with phantom scents of the night my soul fractured irreparably.
It has been three days—or perhaps more—since the guard dropped off the supplies, and our interaction has rattled around in my mind a few times since. So have those weird stomach butterflies. Which is absolutely ridiculous, because what is there even to reminisce about? He’s a guard, and he dropped off my supplies.He’s also tall and rather handsome, but I quickly shake that thought away.
Bella has been glued to my side, her pointed ears always erect as if she is straining to hear a shift in the wind that will indicate my breakdown is looming. Or maybe she’s just waiting for Alexi to come back too. I’ve kept my emotions under lock, deciding to stick with my no crying rule for as long as possible. Shedding those tears will not bring him back. Reducing myself to a sobbing mess will do nothing to help me escape this tower. As if I can barter with my own emotions, I promise myself I can break down once I’ve left this place with Bella in tow. Once we are safe, far away and hidden so that King Dolian can’t find us, then—and only then—will I permit myself to grieve.
To help keep myself unfeeling, I focus on how I will escape. A lot of my supposed plan requires luck, but I owe it to Alexi to try. I don’t want to spend any more of my life trapped in this place than I already have, and I can’t hold out hope that perhaps the king will eventually just leave me alone. A nagging feeling in my gut tells me that he’s kept me in this tower for a reason and I don’t want to be here long enough to find out why.
Working backwards, what will I need with me when I escape? Food is the obvious first choice—of course, I’d need something to carry it in. Changes of clothes would be nice, as well, but would take up a lot of room. Somehow, I’d need to get a pair of shoes, as I assume walking barefoot on the grounds and in the surrounding forests is probably not wise. I know I have to go east, partly because of that strange dream-that-isn’t-a-dream that replays in my mind, but also because I have no choice but to go that way. Going west just leads to the ocean, and as wonderful as it would be to sail away, I don’t exactly have a way to do that. So, that’s the beginning of my plan: get supplies—somehow. Get past the guards, both guarding my tower and any that might surround it—somehow. And then go east—that, I know how to do.
Sitting in front of my vanity, I brush my hair harshly, working all of the tangles from my post-bath hair. After sweeping and mopping this morning, I exercised and then soaked in the tub for a long while. The longer my hair gets, the more easily it tangles, and right now—with its length nearly skimming the top of the stool I’m sitting on—I know that it will only get worse if I don’t do something about it. I roughly grip the hairbrush as I remember that Alexi was the last—and only—person to cut my hair. The memory of him kneeling behind me, scissors in hand as he kept finding excuses to stall, robs me of my breath. He was meticulous, afraid cutting my hair would be a disaster, but it turned out just fine. My eyes close as I squeeze the wooden handle of the hair brush so tightly I think it might snap. Holding my breath, I count to five until the icy numbness I’ve grown accustomed to blankets my heart, until all that’s left is a shadow of what once was. Exhaling, my eyes open and I continue brushing my hair, tugging at the knots until they are either undone or ripped into the bristles in large clumps.
When I’m finished, I attempt to put my hair into a braid and fail miserably, the twisted strands completely undone by the time I make it down to the living area. Bella follows behind me, trotting delicately down the stairs. Grabbing food and water for us both, I take a seat outside on the balcony. Drawing my knees into my chest, I focus on my breathing. It’s the only thing I have control of anymore. The morning sun cradles my body and perfuses my skin with warmth, seeping in almost deep enough to penetrate the frozen fortress I’ve subconsciously constructed around myself.Almost.
The feeling of confinement weighs more heavily on me since Alexi’s death. I’ve always felt imprisoned here, the stones sucking out any sort of contentment or joy I might dare to feel. Although how content can one realistically expect to be when their very life is reduced to repeating the same things over and over again? It’s what I imagine free falling off a mountain must be like, except you never actually hit the ground. Your arms and legs flail about, but there is never any chance of finding anchorage. Eventually, you resign yourself to your fate as you tumble through the air forever.
Each year that passes with me still trapped here is like a layer of myself slowly being peeled away. Sometimes they are small insignificant pieces, like when I see the lanterns from the Summer Solstice celebration floating in the sky and realize with a pain in my gut that it’s my birthday. Or when I reach for one of the hundreds—no, thousands—of books in the library, only to find I’ve already read it. Then there are bigger moments, where I know a huge chunk of my soul has been ripped violently from me and shredded in such a way that it can never be replaced. Like when the king first laid his hands on me. Or when I watched Alexi die because of me. These moments have chipped away at me until I’m nothing but a husk of a person, and I’m afraid that even if I somehow escape, I will never know the peace of being whole again. How could I?
As if in response to my thoughts, I feel the warm, humming sensation inside of me stir near my stomach. It has been dormant since that night, and I wonder if it somehow knows I don’t want to sense its presence. Can itfeelmy vexation at having the ability to heal but being unable to save Alexi? I don’t know if I’m just going crazy or if the magic inside me is actually sentient, but I can sense it there—lying in wait until I’m ready to use it again. My hand flexes in front of me, and I consider pulling that little invisible string that calls my magic up. However, the thought is fleeting, gone before it ever has the chance to settle.
