Page 30

There’s nothing playful or jovial about Sitri when he returns the next evening. He doesn’t speak a word, countenance surly as he sets the bagged gown on the other end of the sofa. I’m already a tangle of nerves for which the dāemon has been punishing me for.

The mirror works at my hair, binding it up into some kind of braided bun with a few loose dangling curls. The gown is black silk trimmed with gold. Heat colors my cheeks to find the shape of my body fully revealed under the tight fabric clinging around me and bunching in a way that gives me the appearance of curves I don’t possess.

It takes me several gulping breaths to coax myself out of the bathroom. I want to flee right back in when Sitri’s eyes slide down the length of me. He says nothing, throat bobbing with an audible swallow. He’s changed too, the sleeves of his tunic embellished in the same golden details as my gown. His face turns stern again as he strides over.

“Tonight, you’re water, pet. You pour when I pour you. No waves. Whatever they might say or do—let it wash over you. It’s all for show. Remember that.”

The dāemon pelts me internally. I have to fight the urge to grimace against it as it reduces me down to something small and withered. I stare at him blankly and he sighs. “Be good?”

“I told you I’ll do whatever you want me to, Sitri,” I say heavily.

He leads me down red velvet hallways until we’re traveling parts of the castle I haven’t yet been to before. It feels like we’ve been walking for ages when the next hallway we turn down is lined with armoured soldiers, those same sinister masks decorating the front of their breastplates. This must be it.

They remain silent and stoic as we move past them. We stop in front of a large, set of double doors, one embossed with that same horned man I’ve become familiar with and the opposing door his female counterpart, flowing fabric draping the lush curves of her breasts and waist. Sitri’s gaze flickers over me once—searching as if to see what others will make of me as the guards heave the door open.

The chamber we step into is vast, vaulted ceiling arching several stories above us. Loud and jovial chatter fills the space—the majority of which comes from a large rectangular table positioned at the helm of the room. It’s filled to the brim with them —witches. I swear I can feel the power in the air, coating the space with its thick and bitter tang. The dāemon reacts to that power, searing patterns in my body like flashes of fire until I can hardly think around it. I clench my palms slick with sweat as Sitri leads us toward the middle table. The chatter in the room falls into hushed murmurs as they notice our entry, heads careening around to take us in.

The chamber is an odd contrast of dark and light—those same orbed lights scattered across the marble ceiling. There are so many of them that when I look up I’m forced to squint but the ceiling is so high by the time the light hits the floor the tables are instilled in a mixture of beams and shadows. They flash across us like strobes as we pass through the room.

I locate Morin at the hull of the table, her face filled with that same gleeful amusement she had at our initial ceremony—like this is all some sort of entertaining game.

The blond haired Mask that tried to pry the Shroud from my head is seated on her right, one arm slung over the back of his chair with a casual arrogance. A flash of surprise flickers in his cold, grey eyes as he finds me and sizes me up. This is the first time he’s actually seeing me, Shroud removed. I quickly look away, scanning across the rest of the table.

It’s evident by the fine, embellished nature of their clothing these people are all royalty. Introducing me to the other kingdoms, Sitri had said. Each strange face my gaze falls across is pointed at me—some in sneers, others with expressions of morbid curiosity. Nearing the end of the table, a white haired man’s eyes burn into me with what can only be interpreted as a blazing hatred. My heart sputters as I turn my face back to the floor.

It’s not until Sitri bypasses the table and starts up an extravagant set of steps that I realize we’re not heading to be seated at the center table at all. I falter and he’s at the top of the steps in no time, turning back to shoot me with a pointed warning glare.

I start up the steps behind him, hurrying to catch up with him. I’m just thinking about how many in this room would probably take great joy in seeing me stumble and, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, my foot catches on the next step and I barely catch myself in time with my hand to the marble stair. Berated by an echo of laughs behind me, I quickly right myself, face flaming as I successfully accomplish the rest of the stairs.

Sitri doesn’t meet my eyes but his disappointment is palpable as he positions himself behind a small table at the top of the steps. It turns out our seating is a small table elevated above everyone. I think this might be the throne room except the thrones have been removed, replaced by this table, positioned as the center stage so everyone can gawk at us.

I pull the chair out beside Sitri, about to slump myself into it when he kicks at me. “Wait,” he hisses.

I freeze, breaths stilted as the attendees slowly climb to their feet. Or some do—others remain seated in a show of defiance. A slow clap builds but it’s pathetic, considering how many are here. It soon dwindles to a lull. Sitri shoots me one sharp appraisal I’m not sure how to decipher before lugging his chair out and taking a seat. I follow shortly behind him as does the rest of the room.

The weight of a hundred heads turning to sneak in glimpses of us boils the blood in my cheeks as hushed murmurs break out among the guests again and I shrink in my chair, casting Sitri a sideways glance. He’s still as a statue and just like when he’d brought the seamstress up, an utter coldness emanates off of him, like he’s furious to find himself in this position—seated next to and married to me , a nought.

I’d completely expected it this time but it still somehow manages to prick inside of me like an unfurling vine of thorns.

Positioned on the table in front of me is one white empty plate and an empty glass. The stares below us turn less pointed and frequent as the chatter around the table builds back to its former glory. Scattered around the fringes of the room are more tables, smaller ones. The Magi seated there don’t appear quite as lavish as the ones directly below us. I realize they must be the attending commoners.

The dāemon is pounding inside of me so vibrantly I grit my teeth, a sheen of sweat forming across my forehead. I’m really wishing I’d let it out to wreck something before coming here. It’s going to take everything in me just to get through this night and keep it contained.

I jolt as the glass in front of me suddenly fills with a blood red liquid. I look over to find Sitri’s has done the same. He doesn’t reach for it. My mouth has gone dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth with my anxiety. I stretch my hand toward it with trembling fingers and grip it tight. I’ve already made a fool of myself by falling, I’m not going to spill my wine too. I peek over at Sitri to see if he intends to stop me as I bring it to my mouth. He doesn’t meet my eyes but something in his demeanor seems disapproving or maybe…that’s just how he already looked.

I assume it's some form of wine. Wine was not afforded to the Shrouded but I know of both its desirable and undesirable affects.

The liquid is a clear, crisp tang, not exactly sweet yet not overly bitter. It does little for the dryness of my mouth and I take several more swallows before carefully settling it back on the table.

The effect is almost immediate. I’m so certain I’m careening sideways in my chair I reach a hand out to steady myself against the table. My breath catches as I feel the blood red liquid warming my stomach and moving through my veins like a cold ice sizzling the flames of the dāemon. I suck in several sharp breaths as the potent effect clouds my vision but by the time I release my third breath the effect has lifted. I feel heavier than I did before, a little bit sloppier yet somehow lighter… more relaxed. Like, none of this is quite as panic-inducing as I had thought. It dulled the dāemon.

It’s now little more than a dull pulse beating in my limbs. I almost want to grin. It’s a miracle liquid. I reach for my glass again, this time gaining Sitri’s attention. He frowns down at the glass in my hand but both of our attention is snagged by the scraping of a chair being pushed against the floor. The buzz of voices peter out and I carefully set my glass back down, turning my attention down the table in front of us.

“Morin, King Corvus wishes for me to pass on—to all here,” he bellows to address the room. “That he thinks what it is you’re doing here is a travesty!”

“Ah, Aym, we haven’t even had the main course yet,” Morin says, picking up her glass to casually swish the red liquid.

“He’s sent me to tell you you’re muddying our lines,” the man carries on, unperturbed. From the angle in which he addresses the table I can only make out his burly form, ruddy cheeks, and dark yet thinning hairline. “Annihilating the Horned God’s line and ruining the possibility of future marriage pacts of our descendants.”

A quiet groan emits from Sitri’s direction. The small expression of dismay does not translate to the facade he’s taking great lengths to exude, slouched in his chair with a countenance of utter boredom.

Several beats pass, only a few coughs and clearing throats breaking through the all-consuming silence before Morin says, “Funny, you think if Corvus felt so passionate about this, he’d make the effort to say so himself. Instead he sends his bro--”

“Corvus is very busy. I can speak for the kingdom of Avalon just as well as he can.”

“I think his absence displays his lack of concern.”

“I will say it then!” Another voice rings out, tone reeking of disapproval. White-headed and bearded, I recognize the man whose eyes blazed with hatred as he slams a fist against the table and rises to a stand.

Morin considers him, utterly unfettered as she brings the glass of wine to her lips. “Go on then, Veylor.”

“I’d rather hear your words, Morin. What explanation can you possibly have for marrying the Prince of the Horned God’s line to that ,” he spits, turning his body to point one condemning finger at me. I shrink further to the back of my chair as Morin’s and several other eyes follow his finger out to me. “You didn’t even discuss it with the council!” he snarls.

“I was intending to address the party once we’ve eaten.”

Neither man makes to back down and Morin releases an audible sigh. “Fine. Have you all forgotten that the Horned God’s line was already muddied?” she asks, her cold voice ringing out sharply to deliver the words across the table.

“Not like this!” the white-haired man snaps. “A nought is bounds below even a commoner, Morin. Especially when Cernunnos has showed such promise. His magical signature is strong—that is why he was still considered heir even in his position—“

“I promise you that Cernunnos' achievements have been greatly exaggerated in an attempt to offset his reputation,” Morin snaps.

I swear I hear Sitri let out the softest of snorts but when I look over he’s still exuding boredom though something in his eyes looks a little more on guard.

“What are the motives? There’s no reaso--”

“We have reached a favored arrangement with the noughts,” Morin says.

“What could you possibly want from them?” Aym asks.

“They have agreed to build and man us a prison made with theurgynate.”

Murmurs of consternation scatter around the table and then several voices break out in quick succession.

“Why would we want that?”

“Theurgynate is a poison!”

“What about the prophecy! They mean to destroy us!”

“The noughts should be exterminated!” the white-haired man spouts so harshly a deep pang of fear stirs in my gut. Not Syra.

Morin waits for the room to quiet before she speaks. “None of us have been successful keeping our dissidents under lock. They’re fleeing and none of us know where they’re going.”

“We’ll locate them. We always do.”

“Thirty-seven gone in the last three months.”

“We’ll find the—“

“One hundred and forty-three total,” Morin says, louder this time. “That’s one hundred and ten more than has ever fled at one time. There’s a chance they’re no longer within the Ouroboros.”

“They have to be! The barrier is still strong!”

“We can no longer deny that the barrier has had its shortcomings,” Morin hisses.

Several of the Magi seated around the table look appalled by the admission, sending worried looks behind their shoulders toward the commoners seated at the edges of the chamber who seem to be leaning forward to take in every word.

“Avalon for instance is no longer supplying the magic it used to supply.”

“I told you we’re working on that,” he spits, face reddening.

“We need to assume the dissidents are making it to the Noman La--”

“We don’t even know if the Noman Lands are real,” Aym interrupts.

“We better hope the Noman Lands are real,” a different woman’s voice rings out and the table turns its attention to her. Face lined with wrinkles pulled flat by the tightness of her bun, her eyes remain composed yet grave. “If they’re not real and they really have found a way past the barrier then they very could be making it beyond.”

More murmurs scatter over the table. “If it’s true, the more that escape the higher chance we have of being discovered,” Morin says. “We need to take this seriously.”

“They’ll never find us with the barrier!” Another man’s voice rings out.

“They already mentioned the barrier is faltering,” a man’s voice complains.

“What do the noughts have to do with this?” Veylor asks Morin.

“The dissidents continue to escape. Lemuria, the Gorgades, Croatoa. It doesn’t matter the kingdom. Magi are notoriously hard to imprison. The only viable option we’ve had in dealing with the dissidents is to execute them. In doing so, we kill those who carry the Blood of the Gods. The same Magi that could be helping to power our Kingdoms and keep the barrier intact. It’s a waste of power.” Morin calmly pushes herself to her feet, pacing back and forth to address the two men still standing.

“With the noughts' aid we can imprison Magi successfully. And theurgynate, I think, could be powerful in motivating those same dissidents into better behavior. Good behavior will be rewarded. Those Magi will have a chance to work at the new Crux.”

“What Crux?”

“The one we’re building at the corner of Agartha.”

More whispers scatter around the table. “How can we trust noughts? How do we know they’ll uphold their end of the bargain?”

Morin stops her pacing, eyes flickering up to me. “Besides the fact that we have the King’s daughter? It’s no concern, Aym. The noughts were desperate. They were starving. Magnus has offered them an outcropping of land to hunt and farm. They will not wish to sully our alliance.”

“And all of this had to come with the sacrifice of the Horned God’s line?” Veylor asks, unconvinced.

“It’s hardly a sacrifice,” Morin snorts. “Or were you intending to offer up one of your own daughters to the Horned God’s line?”

Veylor goes very still and silent and the idle chatter around the table quiets. “None of you?” Morin asks as her gaze guides around the table. “That’s what I thought, Veylor. Nightshade has been placed in a precarious situation. One might say he must pay penance for the sins of his mother. It is she, after all, who ruined his line. No Scion is going to jump at the opportunity.”

“There are other ways of paying penance that don’t come with the sacrifice of his line,” Veylor argues. “And, with the disappearance of Imenand we need to assume he’s now the very last of his line.”

“The marriage was paramount to establishing our loyalty with Eden,” Morin drones.

“We have no loyalty with noughts!” The yell comes from a man at one of the outer tables. Several voices rise up in agreement.

“The marriage was paramount to establishing trust in our alliance. And, we’ve already agreed that no Scion is jumping at the opportunity.”

“It should still be a Magi,” Aym objects.

“It’s the loss of his line you most object to?”

Both Aym and Veylor nod in agreement.

“Let me make a proposal then,” Morin says. “What if we allow the prince to participate in this year’s Rite? Let the Gods decide who’s best to carry his heirs and he can take them as his second wife. He’s only half Scion, after all.”

A second wife?

I steal another glimpse of Sitri to see if he looks pleased. His expression remains indecipherable. I don’t know why the concept has my stomach twisting into knots. More muttering ensues from the table below.

“And, who knows? Maybe the Gods agree his line goes with the nought,” Morin says delightfully. “I’m sure you all have heard about their firebranding. How long has it been since that happened, Veylor?”

The chatter from the table sounds more in agreement this time than not. Veylor pulls his chair out and slumps into it, shaking his head. “He will participate in the Rite, then?” he clarifies suspiciously.

“He’ll participate in the Rite,” Morin ensures him. “Shall we eat dinner now?” Polite laughter reverberates around the room and I sneak another glance at Sitri. He’s still wearing that same blank look but his shoulders are tense and his jaw flexes.

I jolt again when the empty plate before me suddenly fills with food. Ignoring the plate, I reach for the wine glass as the effects have now dwindled. The effect isn’t as pronounced this time and I drain the glass to chase it. As soon as the empty glass meets the table it refills again. I eagerly bring it back to my lips, taking down half of it before slapping it back to the table.

With the relaxing aid of wine I feel brave enough to ask him a question even with the coldness he’s exuding. “Is that a friend of yours?” I gesture down to the man, Veylor, who had argued for his line.

Sitri stares straight ahead.

I don’t have friends, pet.

His lips don’t move but I hear the words clear as day inside my head. My lips part in horror. No, he can’t be in my head. Are you inside my head? I think. No response. His eyes flicker to mine for the briefest of seconds and I see the faintest trace of amusement.

“Are you inside my head?” I voice out loud this time. I catch a couple twitches of his fingers at his side.

Technically, it's more like your ear.

I lift a hand to rub at my left ear. Now that he’s said it I can feel the faintest trace of magic hovering there. I glower in his direction. “You don’t want to be seen talking to me?” I whisper.

His frown deepens. I don’t want to be overheard.

Overheard speaking to a nought, he means. “There’s no one even close.”

He wriggles his fingers. It takes me a few seconds to translate. Right, magic. “You mean someone could use magic to hear us from far away?”

Yes. The word feels like a tickling hiss and I raise my hand to scratch at my ear.

“What’s the Rite?”

His eyes widen a fracture. It’s a fertility rite .

“But what is a fertility rite?”

He stares straight ahead, jaw still flexing. We should talk about this later.

“ Why do you care if someone heard us talking?”

His eyes shut as he lets out a sigh.

I don’t want us to seem like we’re friends , he snaps.

Pink colors my cheeks and I reach for my wine glass and slap myself to the back of the chair. Once I’ve drained my glass my limbs feel weighted and I feel oddly giddy. I can’t even bring myself to care that the person next to me despises me. I decide it doesn’t matter if anyone hears us because they will plainly hear how much he hates me.

“They’re building a prison?”

You heard just as much as I did.

“What did your mother do?”

I didn’t think he could go any stiffer than he already is but he does. He doesn’t even oblige me with a response.

“Are you going to take a second wife?” I whisper.

No .

Surprise ripples through me. It didn’t really sound like he was going to get the choice. “Don’t you want one?”

He finally turns and locks eyes on me. The look on his face is sharp enough that I wonder if I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want one, why in the hell would I want two of you? He voices it into my ear, holding up one finger and then two, exasperated eyes wide as if there were truly no worse fate.

“Right,” I say, quickly looking away, but I find myself soon turning back. “But this one would be a Magi.”

He doesn’t face me.

“That way you could have witchy babies together,” I whisper, stupidly bold with the aid of the wine.

This time he turns his head to glare at me again in warning and then looks away.

“Well, just in case it does happen…I call dibs on the couch,” I say defiantly.

He’s so still I think I might be working him further into a rage but then he lets out a quiet almost inaudible laugh. His shoulders seem to loosen slightly, finger twitching again as he asks, Is that all you’re concerned about?

“What else would I be concerned about?”

He lets out another one of those almost inaudible laughs. It’s your couch, pet.

The Magi below us busy themselves in their plates and the people around them, a portion rising from the seats to mingle once they’ve finished eating. It’s hard to pick out any one conversation in the cacophony of voices. After I finish that second glass of wine it refills once more and I drain that one too. It feels like my head is floating somewhere above my body in a kind of clouded daze—highly preferable to the anxious, dāemon rattled state I was in before.

You should probably eat something if you’re going to keep guzzling wine like that.

I defiantly bring the glass back to my lips.

Have you ever drank…anything before?

I don’t deign to answer. I imagine my silence is telling enough.

It’s not the time or the place to be testing your limits for the first time. Eat something or you’ll be sick.

I take another stubborn swig.

We made an agreement , he hisses.

Damn him. I slap the glass back with such force a drop splatters the white tablecloth. Picking up my fork, I stab it in the gravy covered chicken and stuff it into my mouth with a look that says, are you happy now? The corner of his lip twitches. Bastard. Why would I ever agree to listen to him?

His plate however remains uncharacteristically untouched in front of him. “You’re not even eating,” I mutter under my breath.

I’m not the one guzzling wine.

It’s only a few minutes later guests start making their way up the steps to our table. They do not greet me, only offering furtive glances as they wish their congratulations to Sitri. It’s evident by their cordial yet short greetings none of them know him firsthand at all. He answers in little more than grunts if he deigns to answer them at all. Some bring gifts and Sitri stuffs them under the table without bothering to open them.

I try asking him a few more questions only for this time to get ignored entirely now that people are sporadically coming to our table.

I reach for one of the gifts only because I’m bored out of my mind. A firm hand clamps around my wrist.

Don’t. There’s no telling what's in there. Could be something deadly.

Yanking my hand from his grip, I drop it back to my lap and sink lower into my chair. “You’re paranoid,” I huff.

After so many days cooped up in his chambers, I shouldn’t be so eager to get back but right now all I want is to be curled on the couch, not sitting here getting gawked at and ignored. At least Sitri speaks to me when we’re alone. Here in this place, I might as well be his enemy.

A man glides up the steps, and unlike the others that have greeted our table, I know he must be someone important with the fine material of the dark green tunic he’s wearing. He doesn’t look too far in age from us, blonde hair slick with some form of hair product and tousled to the side. Sitri straightens with a newfound vigilance as he approaches.

“Well, well, well,” he greets. “I never thought I’d make the trip out for a wedding of yours, Nightshade, but this--” he iterates gesturing between us with an air of gloating, “—is something I just couldn’t miss.”

Sitri slacks back in his chair, another show of apathy. “You wouldn’t have anything better to do, would you, Drurian?”

“Plenty I could be doing. None as entertaining as this.” His eyes linger on my face for an unbearably long moment before they slide lower and my face reddens. He finally turns back to Sitri. “I always thought you’d end up with a half-breed like your father, but this.” He drags a hand over his mouth, a perfunctory attempt to hide his grin. “This is even worse than I expected.”

“Fuck off, Drurian,” Sitri says, the intensity of his words fracturing through his apathetic display.

Drurian chuckles, ignoring Sitri’s request as he leans down and props an elbow on the table. “She’s not as ugly as I expected a nought would be.” He says it like he’s admitting a true defeat and lowers his voice. “Is it true they fuck like rabbits? They say that’s why there’s so damn many of them.”

An angry flush works over my face as I look away, but my ears prick, hoping he’ll reveal where it is the other noughts are located.

Sitri molds back to his chair, acting unfazed again as he picks at his nails. “I wouldn’t know. That does remind me though—“ He breaks his attention away from his fingernails to look up. “How’s your sister? I haven’t seen her in a while. Since last…Samhein, I think it was. She’s not here too, is she?” Sitri asks, peering around the room.

“I imagine not. It would probably be pretty upsetting for her.”

Anger flashes in Drurian’s eyes.

“Pass along an invite to the Rite, would you?”

I’m so caught up in their argument I don’t notice the person lingering before me until a hand with long ornamented nails reaches across the table. I jolt back.

A man draped in long, sheer, flowing robes stands before me, hands bedizened in a variety of bracelets and rings. A jeweled diadem drapes his forehead along with a diamond glinting right in between his perfectly manicured brows. “A nought, in the flesh,” he greets.

He holds out a single hand and I press myself further back into my seat. “May I?”

I look to Sitri, hoping he’ll intervene on my behalf. He’s still locked in heated debate, completely unaware of this strange newcomer to our table.

“You don’t even know what it is I ask of you, I presume. I only wish to do a palm reading.” His voice has a snake like quality to it. He holds out a demanding hand once more.

“A—alright,” I stammer, timidly offering my hand.

He takes my hand and turns it face up. Bending over the table to study it, he traces a nail across the lines of my palm. I startle as the magic pulses against my skin. It’s not painful yet sharp and shocking.

The dāemon, which had been lulled to a sleeping state due to the copious amounts of wine I guzzled, reacts, shooting like lightning down my wrist. It pushes the magic from my hand, shatters my glass, a hundred tiny shards scattering across the table.

The man jumps back in surprise, dramatically clasping a hand to his chest. I yank my hand back, curling it into my abdomen. Within seconds Sitri is around me, forcing the robed man to retreat down the steps backward to escape him. “What are you doing, Soothsayer?”

“I—I didn’t do that,” he stutters. “It was her! It is her,” he says, face paling and eyes wide as he points a single finger up at me. “S—she has the touch of ruin! I saw it! I felt it! The Nought shall bear the crown of fate. She’s the nought and you’ve given her a crown!”

The guests fall into a deafening silence, real fear splashing across their faces as their eyes find me.