Chapter Three #2
The suffocating appearance of grief forces me to inhale in pursuit of air.
He had pledged his devotion to his kingdom just as I am about to, and it has been two years since he died protecting it.
I am doing this for him. My brave, honourable and fearless father, the most benevolent king Reyhen has ever seen.
Although I cannot become queen until I serve as princess for half a century, as per Reyheni custom, I am about to be officially sworn in to nobility.
Coming one step closer to protecting his legacy, the one he so meticulously built over the span of his long – but unnaturally short – life.
This is what I was made for, and so this has to be the path I venture down, albeit a narrow and uncertain alley.
Crimson puddles like the tears in my eyes as I bring the quills point to the page, pressing down much too hard to begin with. I drag the blood from its orb into the swirls of letters that make up my gods-given name.
Coelestris Ambra Ignoscere
I let the quill loose and watch as it rolls into the dip of the book’s spine, straightening my posture once again.
The Ceremoniate makes his way around the altar, holding his arms out to me until he is right by my side. He proceeds to take my shoulders in his hands and rotates me until I look out at my audience.
I scan the sea of gold, jewels, and ridiculously feathered hats, but apart from Lillienne in the front row, I find no familiarities in their awed faces.
My court. My people.
At the beginning of our acquaintance.
Something shifts in my peripheral vison, a shuffling accompanied by the chiming sound of keys clattering together on a chain.
I dare a glance, keeping my head as still as possible.
The sight of swelling smoke in the dim light near the wall, in front of the depictions of the Virtuae, makes my body freeze rigid.
A dark figure solidifies as the thick smoke disperses.
His body is clothed only in black, from his leathery boots and his breeches to his silk-shirt that drapes over his broad, muscled shoulders. The top three buttons have been left undone to reveal the crescent moon of Umbra inked into the pallid skin on his chest.
His hair is shockingly white, its edges singed red creating the illusion that his whole head is scattered with unruly flame.
My mouth dries at the devilish grin curling at the corners of his lips and the way his eyes of molten honey land directly on me before he lifts a heavily bejewelled hand and slowly waves his fingers at me in a gesture dripping with menace.
A gasp escapes my lungs, but no one else seems to notice the creature of smoke lurking near the pews.
In fact, they all seem suspiciously oblivious of the fact we have a devil in our midst. That a man who seemingly appeared with the aftermath of hellfire in the very sanctified house of our gods, is surveying their new royal initiate with the hunger of a predator finally facing down his prey.
I can’t bear to look at him any longer, my eyes burning with the image of his face twisting into an expression I do not have the experience to name. My eyelids slam together, and I try to reassure myself under my breath.
‘He isn’t real. He cannot harm me. He isn’t real.’
‘Coelestris Ambra Ignosere!’ the Ceremoniate’s voice bellows into the cavern of the Cathedral, aggressively wrenching my attention back to the ceremony.
I stumble slightly, gripping the table behind me for support, as his shout is recited back to us by every single member of the court.
Every duke, marquess and nobleman alike, rise to repeat the words with a hand to their hearts, as though my name is a prayer they have whispered bedside for a millennium.
I flinch as my veil is lifted from my face and settled over the back of my head.
Shock twisted with astonishment ripples the crowd, as they finally set eyes on the future queen of Reyhen.
My hair is not the woven gold of my mother’s, but a dark chestnut that tints with auburn in the gentle starlight of the Cathedral ceiling; my skin a porcelain peppered with sun-kisses, and my full lips tinted with a colour akin to the rubies hanging from my neck.
I can feel his burning stare heat my cheeks, the taunting shadow of a man that lingers unseen, a dark omen for my impending demise no doubt.
I tell myself that I need to confirm he is still there, and that I am not imagining the echoing sound of metal clanging that chimes rhythmically from the edge of the pews.
I keep my head high, my lips clamped tight in order to impede any stray whimpers that push to escape when I finally roll my eyes in the direction I saw him appear from thick darkness.
And there he remains.
The taunting King of Umbra, all smirks and darkness, radiating with the violent glow of a full winter’s moon. Temptation personified. Here to initiate my premature meeting with Innmez, God of souls. A god we do not share a belief in no doubt.
I blink at him, fear slipping into confusion. He has yet to throw a dagger my way. Or unleash the death he harbours in that grin.
I could’ve sworn I just heard his breath catch at the sight of me looking his way.
‘Eira.’ The Ceremoniate gives a subtle nudge at my elbow with his own. ‘You must wield.’
Shit. I need to wield. I have to concentrate all my attention on pushing the power outwards, without knowing how it will manifest as soon as it leaves the sanctum of my body. How can I focus with the physical embodiment of threat surveying my every move for weakness?
I have mastered the small magics, like retrieval and levitation, as is usual for a Reyheni immortal.
Lillienne and I would practice to no end until we could pour ourselves fresh coffee from the opposite side of the room.
I can ball up the force of light, can project the energy fields required to create protective barriers like those that lines the shores of Reyhen.
And so can most of the people in this room if they have had the proper schooling.
I build a wall against any prowling thoughts of the Umbrian king’s capabilities and centre my mind to the task at hand. The magic I must try and coax out of myself is bestowed upon exclusively royalty, and the Virtuae Relic dictates how much power, and what form it may take in each royal’s hands.
My mother’s powers I assume manifested on the day of her marriage to my father, taking the form of hopeful sunlight – a pretty useless power to have when everyone can wield light from the energy of the Relic should they try hard enough.
My father on the other hand, could melt and manipulate various metals and materials, liquifying natural elements into magic repellent shields and iron chainmail that the guards of Reyhen don for protection.
Certainly more useful for a man with an army in constant wait for battle against anyone who somehow manages to break through the fields of protection that surround the kingdom.
A memory fleets into view, my father sitting on a fleece-lined armchair in the Solar as I crane my neck to look up at him, my head rested upon my elbows as I lie on the fluffy rug that carpeted the space in front of the hearth. My favourite place to listen to my father’s stories.
‘Where did the Relic come from Papa? Ori says a witch spat on a stone and all her magic was stored in her saliva.’
My father chuckles. ‘There are no such abominations as witches, little girl.’ With his head upturned, he clutches the arms of his chair.
‘The Relic was a gift from a group of our gods who call themselves, The Virtuae. They oversaw the entirety of human affairs and saw us struggle to survive with prosperity. The Relic is an offering of power that allows us to protect ourselves and make the most of the earth.’
I remember the puzzlement at the mention of human affairs. ‘But we are not human, are we? Humans die fast. We die slow.’
‘We once were.’ He looks down at me, leaning in.
‘But the Relic granted us the gift of time, and even more so, it bestows upon each royal household, abilities that are crucial for the safeguarding of their kingdoms. Our kingdom is the only one with the ability to source any magics from the Virtuae Relic.’
I lean in closer as he does. ‘But why, Papa? Are we special?’ I butt in.
‘Greed soon overpowered religion, and the gods were angered when the courts of the mainland fought for sole ownership of the Relic, and they were quick to retract their offer of power. So, the Relic was sent to our Isle of Valtayre, shared equally between Reyhen and Umbra. And the mainland withered without it.’
‘Umbra is dark now, Papa. Why don’t they use the Relic?’
‘Greed,’ he repeats. ‘It is what drives most men to atrocious acts. The Virtuae Gods intended the Relic as a chance to enhance our lives, not to be used as a weapon. One day you will feel its magic ignite within you, and you must reach for it. You must let it in, to show appreciation and gratitude to your gods.’
I must reach for it.
The energy of the Relic hums faintly in my blood, and I try to focus on sending it downwards towards my fingertips, but it sticks halfway down. Come on, I plead with it, come to me, listen to me.
Someone in the crowd coughs impatiently.
I close my eyes and shake my arms to loosen the tension, and exhale.
I grasp the energy with my mind and give one heave, sending it hurtling down my limbs at an intense speed.
It rushes towards the bitten down tips of my nails, and I thrust my hands upwards as soon as I feel the crackle of it reacting to the oxygen in the air, turning from warm to blistering in a millisecond.
Brightness erupts alongside the almost unbearable heat as my power turns to a shield of bonfire above me. I hold it there, trying to mask the great difficulty I face in keeping it flowing out from the pits of me.
The room falls into a charged silence, in as much disbelief as I am in myself.
I wield flame.
And some tiny, miniscule piece of my soul finds it dangerously exciting.