Page 6

CHAPTER 6

Seaspray hit Elva’s face as she stood on the ship’s prow, staring at the dawning horizon of Clochain.

It looked nothing like Vettona.

Instead of the turquoise waters and white cliffs of her home, Clochain’s land towered above her, mountains of slate-grey rock and green shrubbery erupting from the earth in staggering beauty.

She’d seen the Arden Mountains before – had fought on their peaks at the border – but seeing them from this vantage was something new altogether.

The ship entered an estuary, and they sailed the river upstream, until they encountered a marina where huge wooden battleships were moored.

Her eyes bulged at the sight of so many cannons.

The rumours, it seemed, were indeed true.

Her mind raced through the implications of the warships; how had they been able to build so many in the midst of the blight?

Vettona’s production had waned as resources had become harder to come by, yet the sight before her was a feat, and the ships’ existence raised more questions than answers; why had Clochain chosen the marriage treaty rather than try and mount a seafront attack?

With so many ships, why hadn’t they tried farming different parts of their island, or increased their trade with Reathas?

Not having anyone to bounce ideas off was isolating, and she yearned for the easy banter with Remi and Kella that had accompanied the warriors.

A pang of homesickness punched her in the guts, and she placed her hands on the railing to brace herself as the ship passed through the marina and continued upstream.

The mountains on either side were an endless slide of rocky beauty, until they rounded a bend in the river and a sharp, almost perfectly triangular mountain came into focus, nestled in a valley made of mirrors.

Only it wasn’t a mirror, but a perfectly clear lake.

A matt-black, monolithic stone sat atop the triangular mountain, its reflection near-perfect in the calm waters.

It stood alone on the peak and was splintered down the centre; a shimmering line of polished onyx surrounded by coarse stone.

Without needing to ask, she knew this was a shrine to Caius, Leader of the Seacht, overlooking his blessed city – which, she belatedly realised, sat on the banks of the lake below.

She tore her gaze from the obelisk, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, and looked towards the city proper.

Where Vincentia was a vertical bowl that had buildings carved into the cliff face, Cailoch was hues of grey and green, the stone buildings planted on top of the low-lying land like sprouting mushrooms.

She hadn’t realised her new home would be so beautiful, so saturated in lush greenery.

Clochain had been the villain in her story for so long; she’d been leading the warriors against their invading forces for years.

Cailoch was meant to be a shithole.

A city whose treachery stained everything, visible for all those to see.

But the city in front of her was impressive.

Giant fig trees spanned the foreshore, their roots cascading into the earth like pillars of the gods themselves.

Twisting temple spires rose above the city, golden flags dancing in the breeze.

The grass was emerald, and evergreen trees lined the streets, covering the city in husky shade.

Not to mention the mountains that soared above, steadfast and brilliant.

This was not the vile city she had imagined, and for some reason it made her want to cry.

Sailors and soldiers streamed around her, calling commands to the men who moored the vessel.

A shadow danced across her vision and Fynton appeared at her side.

He was dressed in a black uniform, a silver crown perched atop his dark hair, every bit the homecoming prince.

Elva glanced at her own clothes; she’d donned a traditional Vettonian gown, a bright blue dress that tied in two straps at her shoulders and hit above her ankles.

On top of it she wore her golden breastplate, carved with geometric patterns and the warriors’ symbol above the heart.

It was an ornate replica of her leather battle armour.

It shone in the light; she’d spent half the morning staving off her nerves by polishing the damn thing.

On top of this she wore a navy coat that complemented the colour of her dress, hiding the tattoo on her forearm.

She’d left her double-edged battleaxe with her luggage, thinking it might send the wrong message, but she wished she had its familiar weight at her side.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

‘So, this is home?’ she asked Fynton after a prolonged silence.

‘It is.’

‘It’s beautiful.

’

He looked at her sideways, something unreadable in his gaze.

‘I see you’ve been working on your pleasantries.

Next time you could even incorporate a “lovely day, isn’t it, Fynton?”’

Elva rolled her eyes and looked away, nearly missing the smirk which spread across his face.

The ship hummed around her in activity as they docked, and when Fynton beckoned her forwards, she turned and strode down the gangplank after him, taking as much time as she could to look at her surroundings before entering the awaiting carriage.

She pulled back the deep red curtains and drank in the city as they began moving.

The main street was lined with two-storey shopfronts, made out of stacked grey stone.

Between the windows of each storey were carvings of the diamond constellation, Caius’ personal signet.

Black and gold flags billowed from poles mounted along the street – black for Clochain, gold for the Seacht – their colour and motion making the city feel vibrant.

The tips of temple spires loomed over the slate roofs, their rise broken only by the gash of shadow Caius’ obelisk cast over them.

Cailoch was a new city, built in Caius’ honour after the fall of the Ellarch treaty three hundred years ago.

Everything about it felt considered, if not a little repetitive.

Straight roads, ordered gardens.

Not one ounce of spontaneity in sight.

The rumble of the carriage changed, the cobblestones flattening as they approached the castle, before finally coming to a halt.

Elva barely had time to straighten her dress and plaster a calm expression on her face before the carriage door opened.

Shoulders back, breath steady.

Show them no fear.

She stepped out, squinting in the bright light and took in her new home.

Cailoch Castle was rectangular, made from enormous grey stonework that stood eight storeys high.

Turrets rose above the roofline, and her eye was drawn to the mighty arched door that sat atop a wide stair promenade.

Two statues, each easily four times the size of a regular man, kneeled on either side of the doorway.

Their hunched shoulders and hands braced the balcony above, on which a line of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their grey armour blending into the stone behind them.

She blinked and looked at the statues again, noting their tortured expressions, their kowtowing postures.

It made the hair on the back of her neck stand, and she averted her gaze, only to be confronted with lines of servants manning the promenade.

Despite the hundreds of people before her, the air was silent, broken only by footsteps and the gentle clink of armour.

‘You ready?’ Fynton asked, coming to stand beside her.

She wasn’t, but she’d been in enough situations to know this was a necessary battle, so she smiled up at him, and lied through her teeth.

‘Absolutely.’

They strode past the servants and foot soldiers lining the stairs.

She winced as she passed beneath the statues, yet she was unable to tear her gaze from them.

The figures grimaced in pain, and she scanned the ropes of muscle winding their way up their thighs and arms in bulges that looked impossible, until she reached their bald heads.

Veins protruded on their necks, the marble so lifelike she thought she saw one pulse.

Her gaze crept higher, coming to stop on their brows where she could see a slave brand carved between their eyes.

Danann.

She flinched and made the sign of the diamond.

She’d never seen danann represented this way before, cowering and enslaved.

In Vettona the myths relayed Tassos, the leader of the Ellarch resistance, had met his hero’s Ending during the final battle with Caius on Mount Ard, a devastating fight between equals, though Caius had emerged victorious.

The danann and the Ellarch’s resistance had perished in the days that followed, the story now so watered down with romanticised legend it was one parents told children when they were misbehaving: Don’t hit your brother or you’ll wind up like the danann!

The tortured giants cowering before her were not the same beings as the ones spoken around hearths in Vettona.

‘Hurry up,’ Fynton called, and she made the shape of the diamond again before she trailed after him into the belly of the Seacht’s most devout kingdom.

The entrance hall was grand, if harsh in its sparse styling.

Red carpets lined the stone floors, and the walls were bare save for the occasional bracket, which held glowing yellow firelights.

It was immense, full of grandeur and gravitas, but she couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

She wished Remi were here to laugh about the styling but she pushed the intrusive thought back and strode forwards, preventing herself from getting caught in a spiderweb of memories.

She followed Fynton through a series of straight hallways until they reached a large internal courtyard.

What stood before her was nothing like she had ever seen.

The castle, she now saw, encased a huge garden that would be full of delicate flowers come springtime.

In the middle of this exquisite landscaping was an immense, gothic cathedral.

Twisting spires of grey stone rose in seven high steeples, and the four corners once again depicted the anguished giants, the danann.

Between them were ornate designs of men and women worshipping the Seacht, interspersed with small, concentric swirls that represented the Ever: the intangible lifeforce of the world made visible.

As Fynton strode towards the doors, she wanted to pull him up, force him to wait a second while she caught her breath at the godsdamn cathedral in the middle of the castle.

But he continued towards the doors, oblivious to her awe.

Her knowing pulsed a warning to hurry, and she sent a quick prayer to Rivalin, God of Foresight, to ask for his blessing against whatever she was about to face, just as the large wooden doors swung open.

Trumpets blared, and the white noise of a crowd rose in volume.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, her tongue sticking to its roof.

Fynton glanced at her, a look of apology on his features as he pushed her gently over the threshold, his hand solid on her back.

He withdrew it a moment later, the absence profound as she took in the space and realised just how small, just how alone, she really was here.

The ceiling was so high she had to crane her neck back to look at it.

What she saw made her breath catch: a glittering mosaic depicting scenes of the Seacht’s rise to victory.

There was one where Caius stood atop Mount Ard, raising the decapitated head of Tassos.

Again, Elva was surprised to see the danann portrayed in such a lowly manner.

In Vettona the danann were still recognised as one of the first beings of the world, worthy of respect even if their life had been a prologue to the Seacht’s ruling.

But this mosaic depicted something sinister; a bloodthirsty conquest that made her want to look away.

Paired with the marble slave figures, it was as if she was being told a familiar folktale which had a different ending, warping her perception of reality.

Her gaze travelled to the next scene where six gods kneeled in deference to their new leader, followed by one that depicted the wedding of Caius and Aurelia.

Another displayed the destruction of the Ellarch treaty, the stone exploding as the gods finally banished the Ever Blessed who had been abusing the world’s magic.

A witch, represented through black constellations across her arms, burned on a pyre, glittering blue swirls of Ever returning to the gods who exalted in the next frame.

It was the origin story of the Seacht, and that was only the ceiling.

Stained-glass windows in colours of summer fruit lined the walls, each one a portrait of the gods.

The glass cast luminescent refractions on the hundreds of people seated below, which she realised a second too late, were all staring at her.

Their chatter died as they kneeled, and she scanned the pews, a niggling feeling growing until she identified the problem: there were no women present.

Suddenly their gazes felt heavy, and she straightened her back, forcing herself not to cower before the congregation.

Fynton began walking and she kept pace, an invisible thread tethering her to him, a united front against the onlookers.

They strode towards the back of the cathedral as trumpets rang through the hall.

Another mosaic lined the far wall, depicting one figure alone: Caius, Leader of the Seacht, God of Gods.

He was tall, with sharp features, and had white hair that flowed past his shoulders.

His hand was raised, and in his palm lay a giant, shimmering diamond.

Stone was Caius’ speciality, and it was used for all important scenes of worship.

The fact that the cathedral had been decorated exclusively in his ordained gift said.

.

.

a lot.

Vincentia had no such temple, even though Aurelia was technically their guardian the same way Caius was Cailoch’s blessed protector.

In front of the dais was a stone basin carved with spirals, a bright flame burning in the centre.

The plinth stopped at Elva’s chest, and she could see the fire burned from nothing.

A gift from the gods.

Sweat trickled down her back as the reality of her new life crashed upon her.

She’d known things were different here, but not this different.

She made the sign of the diamond and kept walking, acutely aware of where Fynton was in the space, the only ally she had, and even that was a stretch.

When they reached the bottom of the dais Fynton dropped to a knee in front of his father, King Dermont, who sat on an ornate marble throne.

Elva was meant to kneel; she’d spent hours discussing this exact moment with her mother.

She could hear her heart beating, feel the heat of the eternal flame, but she straightened her back and fell into the steady calm she used in battle.

Instead of kneeling, she raised two fingers to her brow and dipped her chin, the traditional sign of respect for nobility in her homeland.

She could see Fynton’s shoulders tense from her lowered gaze.

He turned to look up at her, eyes wide and filled with something she couldn’t place.

She blinked at him, watching as a blush rose to his cheeks, and waited.

A count of three, ten, thirty.

Her heart beat faster until—

‘Rise.’

The room exhaled, and Elva swallowed a sigh of relief.

She lifted her head to look at her soon-to-be father-in-law.

King Dermont’s hair was peppered with grey, his skin tanned and weather-beaten.

His uniform was tight across his muscled shoulders, and his face was chiselled, classically handsome, except for his eyes, which were flat.

Lifeless.

She shrank back under his gaze, as if the emptiness behind his irises might suffocate her.

Advisor Gudren stepped beside the throne, his white-streaked hair falling in sheets on either side of his face.

She blinked; she hadn’t seen the advisor on the ship with them; in fact, she hadn’t seen him since he had spoken to Myrra at the celebration in Vincentia.

There were rumours some demigods could Evert – a skill they’d inherited from the gods, which allowed them to travel through space – but she’d never been able to confirm this.

Until, perhaps, now.

Advisor Gudren smiled at her, canines peeking from his lips, and she crossed her hands behind her back to hide a tremor.

She didn’t think she’d ever get used to being in the presence of a demigod.

As soon as he wasn’t looking, she dived into the small seed of her Ever, folding it in on itself until it was nothing more than a speck – as if that will help, Elva .

She was sure demigods couldn’t tell she was Ever Blessed, but that didn’t stop fear engulfing her on the off-chance she was wrong.

Advisor Gudren placed a hand on the king’s shoulder, and Dermont rose a moment later, voice booming out over the congregation.

‘We are pleased to welcome you to Clochain, Princess Elva. Blessed by the glory of the Seacht, in the shadow of Caius we follow.’ The prayer echoed on the lips of the nobles around her, stoking a deep sense of unease in her gut.

‘Cailoch eagerly prepares for the celebration of your nuptials on the spring equinox. Until that day, you are the consort of my son, treated with the same respect I would offer my own daughter.’

She didn’t miss the meaning behind his words, but forced her eyes to stay bright, placid.

Her nerves were fraying, and she wanted to run from the prying leer of Advisor Gudren, but she forced herself to calm, taking her cues from Fynton, who stood at attention next to her.

If he could weather this presentation, then so could she.

The king inclined his head, and Advisor Gudren stepped from behind him.

He handed King Dermont a sceptre, glinting with gemstones.

The king lifted the staff and raised his voice over the hush of the crowd.

‘As we follow in the shadow of the holy union between the gods, Caius and Aurelia, we gift our blessed leaders a new tradition to mark the same journey, to prove Prince Fynton and Princess Elva’s love and devotion.

Over the coming weeks my son and his betrothed will attend three sanctums within our lands and offer themselves to the gods.

Only when this pilgrimage is complete will we reconvene on the eve of the spring equinox to make the union official.

It is then and only then that the peace treaty between our nations will come into full effect.

If any of the holy ceremonies are deemed unfit by the gods, the wedding shall End, the marriage treaty as null and void as the sacrilegious union that was once called Ellarch.

Know if such a thing occurs, your lives will be forfeited to follow in the shadow of our one true leader as penance.

If your union is blessed by the Seacht, this shall not come to pass.

Blessed by the glory of the Seacht, in the shadow of Caius we follow.

’

Fynton froze beside her, and it took seconds for her to catch up – lives, forfeited, penance.

Panic bloomed, but she held it at bay, sure she was misunderstanding.

She looked at Fynton, trying to read his expression as the crowd rumbled the prayer behind them once more.

Fear prickled down Elva’s spine.

Perhaps she just didn’t understand their dialect?

Floral language had never been her strong suit.

.

.

maybe this was cultural difference or religious hyperbole, surely not actual death —

King Dermont raised the sceptre higher, the diamond sending shards of light across the room, splintering her focus as rays of white cut across her vision.

She blinked, her gaze fuzzy until she realised King Dermont and Advisor Gudren stared at her, their flat, sterile looks mirrors of each other.

The king smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

‘The gods wait for no man: the first ceremony is upon us.’