Chapter Three
Iexhale and straighten my back – my head no longer bowed in submission to my nerves in the aftermath of what happened outside but held high and strong.
The scratchy veil of gold brushes against my elevated chin, rising and falling to the cadence of my unsteady breaths, and I grip my hands into the bouquet that has been thrust upon me, to prevent their trembling.
The flowers shiver in a chorus of quiet rustling, some are already dried out or dying at my touch; an omen of what is to come, I guess.
The veil is part of the whole obnoxious ceremony of it all. I have yet to be officially revealed to the rest of court, and no one outside of my close circle knows of my identity. Yet.
Anticipation vibrates through the gold arched doors that shimmer before me like a portal into a new life.
Every duke, duchess and person with even the tiniest smudge of nobility lie beyond, probably huffing and tapping their feet the more I hesitate.
I stand here draped in gold, delaying the inevitable like a dithering bride, stricken last minute with the forceful ache of doubt.
I feel it in my chest, throbbing outward and turning the air around me thick with uncertainty.
For the last hundred years, I’ve felt like this day was a million miles away – the bittersweet return to royal life was inevitable. But in all my imaginings of this day, I failed to picture that our family would consist only of the strained relationship of my mother’s and mine.
My father should be here. Ori should be here.
The only thing keeping me from turning my back on the doors to the Cathedral is the pulling in my gut that whispers to me that this is the closest I will ever feel to the family I once had.
Ori was gone before his own initiation day.
But I know how much he’d looked forward to my own, how he used to whisper in my ear at midnight prayer his predictions on how my powers might manifest.
I bet you’ll be a force for even the gods to reckon with.
My thoughts are cut off with the sound of the solid gold doors groaning open, until I’m in full view and attention of the hundreds of guests that turned for a look at their newfound princess.
The whole crowd clambers to their feet as I will my own to step forwards, my ankles wobbling a little with the unsteady combination of my full body trembles and the ridiculous height of my white satin heels.
I cannot bear to see any faces looking back at me, so I keep my gaze upwards creating an illusion of regal pride.
The ceiling is curved above, an ombré of blue like the sky on the cusp of night, speckled with tiny glittering stars.
The stars seem to shift with me as I walk, an infinite swirling of beguiling light, and I count three swooping archways twisted with golden ivy above the crimson aisle that leads me to the dauntingly close altar.
I bite my lips into my mouth at the sight, forcing myself to focus on breathing through my nose.
On my approach to the altar, I steal a glance at the row of people to my right, in the front pew, I catch Lillienne looking overcome with both worry and excitement.
She wiggles her fingers at me, in an attempt at subtle reassurance, but accidentally elbows the blond-haired boy sitting to her right directly in the ribs.
He scowls at her as she silently pleads in apology with her hand patting the spot where she hit, and I am suddenly grateful that I have my chosen sister to help me navigate this new life.
The gods know I need her to keep me grounded.
My mother stands like a mesmerised statue by the Ceremoniate’s side, whose floor length burgundy robes gather a little too tight around the waist, making it a little difficult to take him seriously as one of the most esteemed members of The Virtuate, the most prominent religion on this half of the Isle.
The Ceremoniate is the only being entrusted with the major royal events in the court, from coronations to marriages to initiations.
As far as I’m aware, the man next to my mother has been Ceremoniate for the last few centuries, and as my eyes trace the lines of age etched into his skin, it becomes obvious to me that this man has seen more of the world than I could even begin to comprehend.
For some reason, a question rises to my tongue, but I’m quickly reminded that now is not the time as my gaze lands on the objects that peer up at me from the altar table.
A steel goblet encrusted with emerald jewels, a lone feather quill, and a large age-spotted book spread open.
But that is not all, lying horizontal below the book, is a sizeable dagger, its hilt carved with the swirling letters of an ancient language I do not recognise.
I screw my face up, thankful for the veil’s ability to hide my puzzlement. My mother didn’t mention the fact that this would be a physical initiation ceremony. Until this moment, I had assumed it would be more a verbal declaration of my allegiance to Reyhen and I do not like the look of that blade.
‘Please, let us sit for our initiate,’ the Ceremoniate commands, and I hear the subsequent rustling of skirts and the muttering of brief words from behind me.
My mother nods in the direction of the dagger, with the words ‘pick it up’ screaming in her eyes, and I place my bouquet down and hover my hand over the blade, hesitant.
When I look to the Ceremoniate for reassurance, he seems no more comfortable with the presence of the dagger than I am, and I wonder briefly whether this is common practice or not.
The dagger shudders in my hand, the starlight from the ceiling glinting along the length of the blade as I adjust the position of the hilt in my palm.
The Ceremoniate clears his throat. ‘Blood, binds us all.’ He raises his arms to address the audience.
‘It is with the nectar of life itself, that our initiate will pledge her devotion to the kingdom of Reyhen, and all her humble citizens.’
A scoff echoes from my right, sending the hairs on the back of my neck into a frenzy.
Over my shoulder, I scan the crowd for the smug perpetrator, but I can only find varying levels of the same obediently engaged expressions.
No-one seems to have heard what I did, and I can infer that the Ceremoniate hasn’t either, for he continues without pause.
‘Fill your goblet, my child.’
My mother once again signals her head towards the dagger in expectance, and my mouth dries of all saliva when I understand what they are implying the dagger is here for, what I am required to do with it.
The nectar of life.
I have to fill the goblet with my blood.
‘Use the dagger,’ the Ceremoniate confirms with a whisper through his yellowed teeth.
I do as instructed, clenching my own teeth together, mentally preparing myself for the unsteady slice of the blade as I tear it through the flesh on my left palm.
The pain arrives in a searing flash, and my blood streams instantaneously, pooling in the cup of my hand before a deviant trickle escapes over my knuckles. A drop hits the surface of the altar table with an audible splat.
Noticing the blood is flowing too fast for my hand to retain, I hover my hand over the goblet before tilting it to the side, balling my fingers into a fist and squeezing them tight into my palm.
The sting of the wound throbs as it pushes forth more and more of my blood. I knew this would be uncomfortable but, shit, this is absolute agony. My breath teeters dangerously close to a laugh when my mother hands me a white linen cloth to obstruct any further bleeding.
I wipe the dagger clean of me before setting it back on the altar. The cloth turns red in my hand within a matter of seconds, as I clamp it into a crumpled ball in my clenched fist, whispering my gratitude to the gods for their gift of rapid healing.
‘With a single quill, she must inscribe her full gods-given name in the book of Reyhen, using the ample life that flows in her veins. It is here that she dedicates herself to you, that she pledges to honour you and spend the remainder of her life proving herself worthy of your worship and devotion.’
My mother hands me the quill, its feathered body soft with the colour of sand, its edges marbled with a deep cerulean not unalike her own beseeching eyes.
Her face is tense – more tense than is usual.
Her mouth twitches with something close to desperation, like she wants nothing more than for this whole ceremony to be over – which seems odd considering she’s the only one of us that seemed the most eager for it to commence.
I bow my head for some reason as I take the quill from her loose grip, before bringing it to the goblet of my own blood.
Steam rises from the steel cup, twisting in the air around my fingers, as though it craves one last touch from my body before evaporating into oblivion.
I swallow hard before the tip of the quill penetrates the surface of the cooling red pool of my life-source.
The book takes pride of place in the centre of the table, its leather-bound jaws gaping open, the pages faded and stained with centuries of age.
The faint scent of damp and mildew floats into my senses as I crouch closer to the altar, and my swooping sleeve snags on the distressed wood of its edge. My vision is slightly obstructed through the coloured mesh of the veil.
On the left page of the book is a list of names scribbled and splotched into the parchment:
Tayne Ntark Lusperd, Peterson Lostin Psterys, Atticus Reynauld Uspin.
All in their own unique handwriting.
And there, written not in blood – but in black ink – is a name I have only heard a few times before.
Aegom Syeri Mnan. Father.