Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Aurelia
T he palace on the outskirts of Ubetta doesn’t loom nearly as large as the immense marble building in the capital city, but the sprawling two-story structure still takes my breath away. The pale gray walls glow in the late morning sun with a silvery shimmer that highlights the intricate carvings of figures and foliage decorating them.
As I stare at the spectacle from the carriage window, I have to catch my jaw to stop it from going slack.
A knowing smirk crosses Marclinus’s lips. “Wait until you see the inside. The imperial chambers are just as impressive as you’ve gotten used to, and there are a couple of extra benefits here as well.”
When the carriage rolls to a stop, we wait for a footman to open it before stepping out. Marclinus offers an exuberant wave to several of the other disembarking nobles before leading me up the front steps himself. A few pages scurry along behind us, clutching the trunks we were riding with.
My husband strides past golden sculptures and delicate mosaics, glittering chandeliers and paintings enchanted to ripple with movement. We continue down the main hallway, up a staircase, and around a couple of corners into the farthest west wing.
There, he motions me past a gilded door into a vast room with fine marlwood furniture, a thick rug that caresses my feet, and broad windows reinforced with wrought-iron bars—detailed with flowers and vines, but clearly intended for security over décor.
As the pages set down my trunks behind us, Marclinus strides to the window closest to the silk-draped bedframe. He unbolts the sturdy lock and pushes the double panes wide.
They rustle the leaves on the low branches of a tree growing just outside. Pale yellow fruit dangle amid those branches.
Marclinus leans out to twist one off. “Apparently a distant empress—my great-great-great-grandmother or some such—loved pears, so she had a few trees planted along the outer wall here.” He flips the fruit playfully in his hand and then tosses it to me. “You can have them fresh without leaving your room.”
While he grabs another for himself, I take a tentative bite. The pear’s flesh is tart and chewy but invigoratingly sweet. “They are good.”
Marclinus shoots me another grin. “Don’t fill up on too many before lunch. The staff always prepares quite a feast whenever the court is back in residence. Then we’ll be off to see our people and earn that blessing from Prospira.”
He saunters out of the room, leaving me alone.
I ask one of the pages to bring a pot of boiled water and sprinkle the leaves of my best calming brew into a teacup. As I sip the steeped liquid, the bittersweet warmth trickles through my nerves like a balm.
After several days of being shut up in a confined space with my husband for nearly every waking hour, simply existing on my own feels like a miracle.
The air in the room is a bit stuffy, but a pleasant breeze drifts through the open window. I open the others partway to encourage more airflow before returning to my trunks to confirm that all my most important possessions are in order.
We’re only going to be here for a matter of days, but I may need my full brewing apparatus. And there’s one particular concoction, cooled into a solid tablet that I slip into the pouch at my hip, that I’ll want before this afternoon’s confirmation rite.
My gaze lingers on the offering bowl tucked away in one corner of the trunk. The urge itches at me to lay out some tidbit for whatever daimon might still be roaming through Dariu for whatever luck their good will can bring me.
But I’m trying to keep my husband as happy with me as possible. I already know the Darium nobles look down on the practice of appealing to the spirit creatures that flit through our world.
I have to keep making my own luck.
I’m just closing the trunk lid when something rattles against one of the window frames. As I hesitate, the sound is followed by another brisk tap.
I ease over to the window and peek outside.
Beyond the pear tree branches, a familiar figure stands in the grounds below, dressed in an emerald-green shirt that sets off his dark skin and black hair to impressive effect.
Lorenzo has positioned himself in profile, his face turned to the side as if he’s paying no attention to the palace at all, but he’s clearly watching for my arrival. When I step closer to the window to bring myself into view, his fingers twist at his side in a series of swift gestures.
We’re here if you need us. Lower floor, around the corner. Bastien two over, me five, Raul nine.
His hand relaxes, and he ambles off as if to explore the gardens. An ache forms at the base of my throat.
Even when we’re forced to keep our distance, he wants me to know I can count on them.
In line with the priorities of its neighboring temple, the city of Ubetta looks like a haven of growth and abundance. As our procession weaves through the wide streets, we pass building after building constructed partly out of living plants: wooden walls merged with blooming trees, roofs of woven vine still sprouting leaves.
On every corner, a tree bearing one sort of fruit or another shades the street, although most of their current yield looks unripe.
At a couple, children clamber through the branches checking the bounty while their parents examine the lower boughs. Hope lights in their pinched faces when one of the kids tosses down a ruddy apple.
From their scruffy clothes and skinny bodies, I’m guessing they rely on the public trees to supplement their meals. How do they fare when the growing season is over?
They pause to wave to the imperial carriage, not letting their hunger distract them from the awe of seeing their ruler in person. Marclinus grins and waves back.
Does he even notice that their lives must be far from plentiful?
The closer we get to the Temple of Fruitful Fields, the more locals swarm the streets. Cheers rise up while those farther back bob on their toes for a better view.
Beyond the city’s edge, stark rocky mountains rise in the distance to the east. But the landscape around the temple is all verdant fields true to its name.
Like much of the city, the temple itself stands as part of four towering oaks with windows tucked into the corners of branches, rustling leaves sheltering the roof. The walls built between the grand trees echo Prospira’s promise of abundance with carvings of flowers and food, bounding rabbits and milk-heavy cows.
As the cleric of the temple leads Marclinus and I around the living structure, murmurs flow through the air after us. An even larger crowd of locals continues to gather around us to watch the confirmation rite.
Most have drawn close around the ceremonial site behind the temple. Like the setting for the Esterean rite, this one takes place in a wide hollow so those watching have a clear view as they peer down at us.
But Prospira isn’t interested in mazes. The godlen of fertility and harvest watches over a swath of dark-leafed plants that blanket the bottom of the hollow, their viny stems winding around each other. I can’t make out a speck of the earth beneath them.
I still don’t know exactly how the rite is going to work, but as the cleric motions to an ornate altar set up at the far edge of the hollow, I pop my concocted tablet into my mouth. An acrid flavor seeps over my tongue as I chew a few times and swallow.
The ingredients I combined should dampen any pain I experience in the next couple of hours. The effect won’t be immediate, but I didn’t want to risk ingesting it too early. I have to wait for Marclinus to go first, after all.
The cleric lifts his arms toward the gathered people. “ Many ages ago when the gods walked our lands, Prospira traveled through this region. The people of Ubetta went out of their way to offer her good food and comforts even though many had little to spare. As her thanks to us, she saw this temple founded and blessed us with our most sacred plant. Now our emperor and empress will both follow in her path.”
He sweeps his hand to indicate the mass of vegetation beneath us and hands Marclinus a gold-rimmed basket. “Goldglobe requires great care and worship to grow well, but when it produces fruit, every one contains all the nourishment a grown man requires for a week. You will walk through the goldglobe field, nourishing it in turn with the waters of your body as you expect to nourish all Dariu’s people during your rule. When you have collected ten of the melons, you will present them in Prospira’s honor on her altar above.”
That sounds simple enough. I watch to see how the cleric will arrange the blood-letting, but he makes no further move toward Marclinus. Instead, he sets off around the rim of the hollow to meet his emperor at the altar.
Marclinus shrugs off the thin purple robe of embroidered silk he was wearing, which a page darts over to collect. Beneath, he has on one of the typical billowy Darium shirts, but breeches that only drop to his knees. He’s left his upper calves bare above tall leather boots of light beige.
An inkling passes through my head of what this might signify. A chill tickles down my spine.
My husband strides down the slope of the hollow with total confidence, which of course he’d have when he’s been properly outfitted for this task. He takes only a moment to gaze at the field of goldglobe plants before he marches on into their midst.
Those boots must have been tailored specifically for this test. The highest leaves reach just above the leather rim .
They slice across Marclinus’s bare shins, drawing scarlet lines in his milky skin. The color of the boots immediately makes sense as the blood dribbles down the leather surface toward the earth.
He wants everyone to see what he’s sacrificing for this rite, the red standing out starkly against the pale material.
Those scratches can’t hurt all that much, though. As Marclinus walks on, blood continues to trickle over his boots, but only a few more leaves scrape over his flesh. Most of them simply drag across the leather without doing more than smearing the blood, drawing the blotches larger.
I flex my toes within my typical leather slippers—which aren’t specially made and don’t even reach my ankle bones. The chill has condensed in my chest.
I can’t back down now, not when my participation has already been announced, not in front of all these people whose hearts and minds I need to win. I’ve bled in Marclinus’s trials before.
At least this time, it’ll be for a purpose I’m happier to serve.
Marclinus dips down here and there to pluck one of the melons off the plants. The bright yellow globes fill his entire hand with long fingers splayed. More red lines dapple his knuckles and wrists with each acquisition.
His confident smile never leaves his face. He knows how to put on a show—I’ll give him that.
He barely veers from his straight course across the vast patch of greenery. When he reaches the opposite side with a heap of ten melons in his basket, he hefts it high with two blood-streaked hands and carries it up the far slope like a trophy. Once he’s set it on the altar, he bows to the cleric with a dramatic flourish.
My heart is thudding hard enough to drown out the words she says accepting his completion of the task. The crowd around the ceremony site cheers.
As the cleric calls out for the empress to join her as well, one of the temple devouts pushes a matching basket into my hands.
Here I go.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tread down the slope toward the goldglobe. The skirt of my dress ripples around my legs.
I did choose well in one element of my attire. I went with Eloxian white to emphasize peace and security—and so that the blood I spill will stand out against it. The crimson will bloom even more brightly on the silk than it did Marclinus’s beige leather.
With my first step into the mass of vines, I hold the faint hope in the back of my head that my enchanted clothing will offer some protection. It only takes a couple of paces to realize the full extent of my predicament.
The leaves etch little cuts into my legs from my ankles to just below my knees, tearing the silk of my skirt as they do. The magical protections woven into the fabric must only work against blades of metal, not natural vegetation.
Or maybe no magic at all could fend off this god-blessed plant.
The sharp edges also score the supple leather of my shoes. Marclinus’s boots must have been made of tougher stuff. Within another couple of steps, the first prick of a leaf slices right through the sole into my heel.
Pain radiates up my thighs, dulled by the suppressant I ingested but still potent enough to niggle at my nerves. Gods only know how awful I’d feel if I hadn’t taken my own small precaution.
Scarlet splotches spread across the white fabric around my legs. The silk sticks to the wounds and detaches with every swing of my feet across the ground. A fresh sting emanates with every movement.
I breathe slow and even, casting my gaze across the dark green vegetation in search of those brilliantly yellow globes so aptly named.
Marclinus seemed to find his easily enough. He must have picked all the ripe melons growing close to the middle of the field.
A gleam of yellow catches my eye, and I veer toward it, restraining a wince as more leaves rake across my flesh like tiny claws. Inside, I sink my focus into the serene space I hold tight at my core.
Elox, stay with me. Let me meet this challenge with all my composure. Let me see it through to the end.
The growing ache in my limbs turns my breath ragged. I bend down, set my jaw at the prick of the leaves across my fingers, and yank out one melon.
Another lies close by—a minor boon. I detach that one too and glimpse another farther on.
With more and more blood streaming through my skirt and onto the ground, I follow a weaving path across the patch, following the melons that present themselves. Never letting myself stray too far from the altar waiting for me up ahead.
When I straighten up after retrieving my fifth melon, my head swims with dizziness. I stiffen my posture against the sensation, managing not to sway.
Curse it all. I didn’t expect to be offering up this much of myself in the rite.
The effects of the tablet might dull the pain, but it won’t bolster my strength while I drain myself quite literally of life.
Keep going. As quickly and efficiently as possible. Even if my vision blurs for a second as I scan the clumps of leaves for another glint of yellow .
My hands feel as if they’re going numb. The sixth melon slides in my bleeding fingers. A burn sears into my calves, flaring hotter with each swipe of my tattered skirts.
As I reach for the seventh fruit, a sharper wave of dizziness rushes over me. I nearly tip right over face-first into the leaves.
My stomach lurches, and I manage to catch my balance by jamming my hand into the mass of leaves. More jabs pierce my palm.
I wrench myself upward, cradling the basket against the middle of my belly so it doesn’t tip me to one side or the other.
One step. Another step. Suppress a shudder at the liquid coursing over my raw skin.
Then a voice slides into my head, soft and faint but clear. “You can do this, Rell. You’re almost there. A medic’s waiting for you by the altar. I know you can make it that far.”
It’s Lorenzo. He’s risking using his illusionary magic not far from Marclinus’s guards to help boost my spirits.
“The next melon is just a couple of steps ahead of you. I’ll be right here with you the whole time.”
My body still feels shaky, but my spirits rise. I push onward with all the vigor I have in me.
The eighth fruit. Two more to go.
“One day when all this is done, I’ll take you back to Rione. We’ll sit on one of the palace terraces and look out over the turquoise sea in the most refreshing breeze. We’ll eat coconut jam and pastries and fish fried so fresh it melts in your mouth.”
He’s drawing a picture for me, a place where I can escape the worst of the pain. I wrap the image around me as I trudge onward to the ninth melon.
There. I’m almost at the edge of the patch.
I only need one more .
My ragged shoes squish beneath my feet, soaked through with my blood. I pause, and the whole world blurs around me.
Lorenzo’s projected voice wavers. A strain creeps into his tone as it fades, but he keeps going. “All the gods will be on your side, Rell. You can beat Marclinus at his own game. Keep coming back to me.”
Great God only knows how much effort it’s taking him to concentrate it solely on me across the distance, ensuring no one else picks up on even a trace of the illusion. How much longer will he be able to speak like that before he wears himself out completely?
He’s not letting himself falter. I have to push on too.
I swallow hard, and my sight sharpens just enough for me to notice a yellow sheen right near the edge of the patch. I shuffle toward it with all the strength I can summon.
As I set the tenth melon into the basket, an eager murmuring ripples through the watching crowd. I’d almost forgotten they were there. So much for the pressure of an audience that Etta and Pierus were worried about.
Leaving the biting leaves behind, I slog up the hill. Every footfall jars loose more pain.
But here’s the medic in her white robes waiting for me. Here’s the Prospiran cleric in his of yellow, welcoming me to the altar with open arms.
As I set the basket down next to Marclinus’s, the healer is already grasping my hands. With a pulse of her healing magic, the cuts there seal. She bends down to extend her ability to my legs.
With the flow of soothing energy, my flagging strength revives.
The cleric pours a bucket of water over my basket to wash the fruit clean as well. Beyond her, Marclinus is grinning fiercely, as if he’d find it even more fun to toss me back into the mass of leaves and watch me thrash around in them.
I don’t want him to win. Not even in this one rite.
He completed it much more gracefully than I did, but I can show how deeply I understand Prospira’s wishes for the world—wishes this callously selfish man would never consider for anyone except himself.
I reach for my basket again. “I’d like to honor our godlen of abundance in one more way.”
The cleric blinks at me but nods. “As you wish, Your Imperial Highness.”
Marclinus makes a startled sound and opens his mouth as if to interrupt me, but I speak first, loud enough for my voice to ring out over the crowd. “I give this one goldglobe melon to Prospira.”
I set one of the melons on the altar. Then, clutching the basket, I step toward the watching civilians beyond the ring of guards protecting our spot by the altar.
“These fruits should nourish those who need it most. You know your neighbors better than I do. Which families in Ubetta are most in need of an extra meal? Who’s been struggling to make ends meet? Let them be blessed by Prospira’s bounty today.”
Awed eyes stared back at me. Urgent conversations break out throughout the mass of figures.
“Volmus and Sirena should have one to share with their children,” someone hollers to a chorus of agreement. The spectators nudge the couple toward the guards.
I offer one of the melons, and the woman hugs it to her chest. “Thank you,” she says, abruptly teary.
I choke up a little myself before I manage to raise my voice again. “Who else needs a helping hand to live as they should? I have eight more to offer, and I want to see them given where Prospira’s help is needed most. Let us all live the happiest and most plentiful lives we can!”
Eager applause reverberates through the crowd alongside more shouted suggestions of the deserving, and I know I’ve truly confirmed myself as their empress today.