17. Blessed are the Given
17
BLESSED ARE THE GIVEN
WREN
T his city is a literal nightmare.
That thought has been running through my mind ever since I learned what this festival was truly about. It kept me company as my feet carried me through the streets, following the dancers. Swarms of people joined us, all laughing and giggling as they celebrated the Given.
Not. Me.
My heart has been racing nonstop, and that roaring remains in my ears. I don’t have it in me to care that the heat is making my clothes stick to my body or that my meager breakfast of berries has long since worn off.
All that matters is that these people are celebrating death .
My death.
It’s so fucking macabre that I can barely stand it. I want to climb onto the rooftops and scream that they’ve all been fooled, that they’re celebrating murder. The Giving is a gods-damned lie, and very few people know what’s really happening. My fingers twitch with the desire to rip off every Mark I see, throw them to the ground, and trample them beneath my feet.
Every giggle makes the angry fire inside me burn brighter. Every laugh makes me want to bellow my rage and horror.
If the Watchers weren’t here, I would do that. They’re not Hunters, but they’re still dangerous.
The soldiers are everywhere. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them the moment I arrived in the city yesterday because, for every few jovial citizens partaking in the festivities, there’s a guard looking down on them. Watching. Waiting.
Fucking great.
I must say the last part out loud because an elderly woman nearby turns and frowns. “Language, young lady.”
Before I can reply that I’m not a young lady, and who the fuck cares about language when I’m supposed to be dead right now, she disappears into the moving crowd.
It’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be picking a fight. I’m supposed to be staying out of sight, getting a map, and fleeing this suns-forsaken kingdom. That’s more imperative now than ever.
Besides, I hate to admit it, but the woman is right. Mother would be ashamed of the language I’ve used over the past few days.
“Swearing is undignified, Birdie,” she told me the first time she heard me testing out the word fuck after I picked it up from my brothers. “People who swear do so because they can’t think of more eloquent ways to express themselves. You’ve been blessed by the gods—your language should reflect that.”
Well, I’m very sorry to break it to you, Mother, but I’m fresh out of eloquent turns of phrase right now.
It’s not that I’m exactly proud of the vulgar language I’ve been using recently, but apparently, when your entire world gets flipped upside down and you watch your best friend’s throat get slit, you curse more often. Who knew?
The future I had envisioned as a healer is gone now. Everything I’d ever hoped for is a lie. This is how I’m dealing with that.
I’m starting to realize that this is the way the world works. Things happen. Plans get fucked up. People get murdered. Hunters with twisted senses of humor give already desperate women one day’s head start.
It’s a lot to deal with, and if swearing helps, then I’m going to do it.
I need to get out of Mora, but my grumbling stomach reminds me that my human needs will start causing me problems if I don’t take care of them. I desperately need food and water. My body still aches from sleeping in the garden, and my neck feels like it’s one uncomfortable sleeping position away from never fully straightening again.
The only good thing about this gods-damned Giving Festival is that all the fake Marks mean my real one shouldn’t stand out too much.
I’m using the term good extremely loosely since I’ve learned over the past few days that my judgment isn’t exactly sound. First, I saved the Hunter. That obviously didn’t turn out well. Then, I entered this city that is celebrating death.
Clearly, I’ve had a bad run of things.
Maybe instead of thinking of what I would do, since that’s clearly not a good idea, I should try thinking like Amelia. She excelled at everything she ever did. When we decided to make the most of our time before being Given by finding a couple boys to explore the more delicate, passionate part of human nature with, Amelia put together a list of pros and cons for all our possible choices—not that there were many.
We went over them with a fine-toothed comb before settling on Felix for her and Nolen for me. He was fine for a first lover—kind, if not a bit awkward—and he didn’t hurt me, which was the important part.
Amelia was studious and succeeded at everything she did. I bet if she were in my position, she would’ve been a fantastic outlaw. She wouldn’t be swearing and trying to keep her head down as she waded through the streets, avoiding attention. She’d use the Giving Festival as an opportunity to get what she needed before leaving Mora for good.
Be like Amelia.
That’s not a bad idea. In fact, it might be one of the best ideas I’ve had in several days.
I don’t give myself time to talk myself out of this plan. Instead, I take a deep breath, hold my head up high, and push back my hood. My Mark burns on my forehead as I expose it to the midday suns for the first time since before I left Grenbloom.
Long moments go by as I brace myself for one of the Watchers to catch sight of me. All it will take is for one soldier to realize my Mark looks too real, and everything will be over.
Except, no one notices me. No one yells at me.
I feel eyes on me, and I look up to see a Watcher gazing directly at me. My chest tightens, and I don’t breathe, but his gaze moves on after a heartbeat.
It worked. Suns save me, but it worked .
I exhale, my shoulders loosening as the breeze plays with my hair for the first time in days. Okay. Maybe this festival isn’t so bad. Maybe, in a roundabout way, this is a good thing.
I cough, stopping that thought before it gets any further. Gods above, that’s taking things too far. The memory of Amelia’s blood is too fresh.
But now that I’m walking around without my hood on and the wind is gently lifting my curls, kissing the sides of my neck, I feel like I can breathe for the first time since the Hunter discovered my identity.
And just in time.
I pass beneath a white arch, and the street widens into a massive cobblestone square. It’s chaotic, as I’ve come to expect the city to be. I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. I barely know where to look first.
The square is filled with more market stalls and people than I’ve ever seen. There’s a wooden platform in the middle where musicians are playing stringed instruments.
The wind carries the scent of roasted meat and spices towards me, and my stomach rumbles.
Suns, I’m so hungry. I reach into my satchel, turning Alba’s three coins over in my hand. No one is looking at me, not even the Watchers stationed throughout the square.
The Giving Festival is dark, dangerous, and morbid, but I might be able to use it to my advantage and get what I need. I walk past a bookseller stationed next to an artist painting a lush landscape. The painter has several canvases for sale, each more beautiful than the last.
To their right is a baker whose table is laden with cakes. Some are small and could be devoured in two bites, while others would be big enough for my whole family and our neighbors to enjoy. All the cakes are frosted, and a few are even decorated with colorful, glassy shards of sugar.
If the twins were here, they’d dive right in. Marie and Violet have the biggest sweet tooths I’ve ever seen. My chest tightens at the thought of my sisters, and for a moment, a wave of homesickness so strong I can barely breathe bowls into me.
Blessed suns, I hope the girls are okay. I hope they’re at home, getting ready to go to school and learn and do all the things that normal, unmarked teenagers get to do. Thanks to my status as a gods-blessed, the twins were sent to school even though it isn’t the norm for females in my village.
“Would you like a piece of cake?” a young woman asks from the other side of the table. Her hair is a vibrant shade of green that somehow works with her very pale skin.
I must’ve wandered closer while I was caught in my thoughts.
She looks friendly, and for a moment, I consider her offer. I’m sure her cakes are delicious, and my mouth waters at the thought of eating something sweet after being on the run for so long. Before I can pay her, though, common sense kicks in. My funds are limited, and gorging myself on sugar won’t help me in the long run.
Pressing my lips together, I grimace. “They look delicious, but I can’t. Thank you, though.”
Forcing myself to step away from the sweet-laden table takes every ounce of self-control I possess.
I pass a stall filled with colorful bolts of fabric and another brimming with skeins of yarn. Beside them is a seamstress who is hand-sewing an elaborate gown. She seems engrossed in her work, and she doesn’t look up as I pass her by. She doesn’t even seem bothered by the Watcher stationed to the right of her stall.
“Hand pies!” someone calls from my left. “Fresh meat pies, baked this morning!”
At the same moment, the wind blows, bringing me traces of fried dough and spiced meats. My stomach grumbles, and this time, I can’t ignore its call. I follow my nose to the source of the delicious scent.
The moment I see the pies, I know I’ve made the right decision in coming here. The golden pastries are brown around the edges, and the air smells like a warm hug.
There are a few people lingering near the stall, and I wait for them to clear before approaching the chef. She looks to be around Mother’s age, with tawny skin and turquoise hair in tight braids that fall midway down her chest. I place my order, handing over one of my three precious coins in exchange for a pie off her cooling rack.
She slides it over to me with some change, leaning across her stand.
“Your Mark is beautiful.” Her admiring gaze is locked on my forehead. “How did you get it to glow so realistically?”
My eyes widen, and my next breath is a strangled gasp. Clutching the still-warm pie to my chest, as if that will help get me out of this situation, I swallow.
Fuck. Why didn’t I pull up my hood before I came over?
“I… uh… I bought it from another vendor.”
“Did you? It looks so realistic.” She reaches out to touch my Mark, and internally, I cry out in alarm. This is the last thing I need.
I can’t let my panic show, though. Cognizant of the nearby Watchers, I force myself to remain calm and smile politely at the inquisitive woman as I take what I hope is a casual step back.
“Doesn’t it? There are some very skilled artisans here.”
My words ring with truth, even though I’m lying about the origin of my Mark.
Please, please, please, stop asking me questions, I silently beg her.
Since luck isn’t on my side, she doesn’t look away.
“Yes, there are.” Something about her expression has alarm bells ringing in my head.
Burning suns, save me. My skin feels too tight for its frame, and my breaths come in short bursts. I take another step back. I need to get out of here.
“Thank you for this.” I nibble the corner of the hand pie, and spices flood my mouth. I don’t fake the moan that slips from my lips. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Turning around before things can get even worse, I hurry through the crowd. The knowledge that she could call the Watchers at any moment is sharp in my mind.
Resisting the urge to pull my hood over my head in case the woman is still watching me, I keep my head down and walk towards the thickest part of the crowd. I finish my food quickly, the spiced meat tasting like ash as I dissect every one of the woman’s comments.
Does she know ?
If she alerts the Watchers to my presence, everything will fall apart. My stomach churns, and I hug my arms around my middle, forcing myself to keep my food down. My body needs this nourishment.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
So much for being like Amelia. Getting out of this square as quickly as possible is now my main priority.
I’m so preoccupied with putting space between me and the curious vendor that I lose track of my surroundings. The people, the drums, the laughter, and even the burning heat fade away.
I don’t notice the shift in the air at first. The laughter dies down. The music quiets, then stops. The citizens who were milling about now stand in one place.
Now that everyone has stopped, I’m forced to freeze, as well. Even in the midst of my panicked haze, I recognize that being the only person moving against a crowd will draw attention.
What’s going on?
There are so many people that it’s difficult to see what everyone is looking at. I rise onto my tiptoes, peering over the shoulders of the people in front of me. The crowd is so vast that it takes a moment for me to see what they’re all looking at, but once I do…
A scream crawls up my throat. My heart booms, and that rushing sound is back in my ears.
Or maybe it never left. It stayed there, hiding in the shadows, waiting until it could return.
The musicians have vacated the wooden platform, but the space isn’t empty. Instead, pairs of Watchers occupy each of the four corners, looking over the crowd. They’re joined by five priests and priestesses, whose crimson robes are a shock against the brilliant blue sky. I don’t recognize four of them, but the fifth…
My stomach churns, and my head spins. I’m not sure whether to scream or cry or run away, so instead, I stare at the stage.
The same head priestess who presided over Amelia’s murder is here. The breeze lifts her lavender hair, and the hands that slashed the blade across Amelia’s throat are waving to the crowd as if she’s a popular noblewoman and not a fucking murderer.
My eyes narrow on the red Mark on the back of her hand, and blood drains from my face. I saw it the day Amelia was Given, and I didn’t think twice about it. But now…
Now I know what happens. The Given die, so how is she Marked?
The answer appears in my mind a heartbeat later as I realize that the Mark is further up on her hand than it was during Amelia’s Giving.
It’s not real.
I’ve been trying to figure out why she wasn’t Given, but it turns out, she’s a fake. An imposter. Her Mark is nothing but a sticker.
It’s nearly a perfect replica, but it’s just that—a replica.
A chill sweeps over me. Every time I think I understand how evil the Giving Ceremonies truly are, another layer peels back and reveals more darkness.
The depth of this deception is astounding. These lies are like roots, digging into every single part of our society. Where do they end? Who started them?
The head priestess’s mouth is moving, but none of her words register. Suns save me, how long have they been here? I was so worried about avoiding the Hunter, but I didn’t even consider the fact that there might be priests and priestesses here.
And then, as if things aren’t bad enough, the head priestess waves her hand in the air. It must be a signal because the Watchers descend from the platform.
It’s then that I realize that everything I’ve witnessed today—the drums, the dancers, the laughter and music, the food and drinks, the frivolities of a city celebrating death—have been nothing but a gruesome lead-up to the main event.
Sitting on an elevated bench so everyone can see them, wearing garments that are so close to white they’re barely green, are three beaming gods-blessed.
As soon as I see them, everything else fades away. The weight of Amelia’s bracelet on my wrist is the only thing grounding me. I grab the remaining sun, squeezing it tightly as I stare at the stage. It’s rude, but I can’t help myself.
The Given stick together.
There is no doubt in my mind—this trio is gods-blessed, just like me. How could I ever have mistaken the young man who peeled off his Mark for a Given? Even the priestess’s sticker doesn’t compare to the real, glowing Marks adorning the three gods-blessed on the platform.
I wish I could pull up my hood to hide, but there are too many people around me. Instead, I commit the trio’s faces to memory as I draw my curls over my own Mark, hiding it from sight as best I can.
On the far left, furthest from me, is a gangly man. His Giving Mark is a glowing orange flame sitting on his collarbone, peeking out from beneath his tunic. The color of his Mark is a stark contrast to his raven hair and olive skin. Freckles dot the bridge of his nose, and his eyes crinkle as he looks over the crowd and smiles. His hands are folded in his lap, and he looks relaxed.
I’ve never related less to someone in my entire life.
Next to him is a stunning young woman with ebony skin. Her wide eyes are a dark brown filled with a spark of excitement, and her hair is a brilliant blue, like crystal-clear water on a perfectly sunny day. It tumbles down her shoulders in soft waves, ending above her breasts.
Her gown is a tailored version of the homespun dresses Amelia and I used to wear. Instead of sleeves that taper at her wrists, hers are tight to her elbows and then expand into bells. She’s twisting her fingers in her lap, and a golden glow comes from the brilliant yellow swirl on the inside of her left wrist.
Lucky .
It would be so much easier to avoid attention if my Mark was in a spot like that. I could throw on a pair of gloves, and no one would be any wiser about my status as a gods-blessed.
Of course, since luck has never been on my side, my extremely inconveniently placed Mark starts burning. Why does this keep happening?
Discreetly adjusting my curls so they cover my forehead a bit better, I eye the third gods-blessed. His hair is a silky brown sheet that brushes his shoulders, his skin is pale, and unlike the other two, his eyes are hard as they look over the crowd. Tension radiates off the man. The dark green swirl on his neck pulses as he clenches his jaw.
Does he know the Giving is a lie? That instead of serving the gods, he’s sentenced to die?
Wait.
My blood chills as I rip my gaze from the Given and reevaluate the head priestess. Is this… Does everyone in Mora know what happens to the gods-blessed? Are they all in on it? Is this festival some kind of sick joke?
Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and my fingers find the hilt of Father’s knife. I don’t care that it would be stupid. If they start chanting, I’m going up there.
I’m not sure how I’ll get past the Watchers, but I refuse to stand by and bear witness to another murder, let alone three. I can’t.
I’m so focused on building up the courage to run into a situation that will expose me that I don’t notice the crowd shifting around me. A strong floral perfume reaches my nose, and then someone brushes the back of my hand.
I stiffen, and my heart races as curses race through my mind. Has someone found me out?
“You look like you could use an opportunity to relax, my dear,” a woman whispers in my ear, folding my fingers around a cold vial. “Take one drop to stop feeling, two to be free, and three…”
A tinkling laugh brushes my neck as she pats my hand in an almost maternal fashion. I hitch a breath and turn around, my eyes locking on an older woman with silver hair. Her pupils are blown, and there’s a blissful look on her face that tells me she’s definitely partaken in something today, probably what’s in the vial.
“Three?” I say, my gaze sweeping over hers.
“Three is too much.” She chuckles breathily, her emerald dress swishing as she sways in front of me. “If you take three, this is the only thing that will save you.”
She places something else in my palm. Before I can react, she backs up and is swallowed by the crowd.
She’s gone.
My heart is still racing when I drop my gaze to my hand. A small vial the size of my thumb sits in my palm, and it’s filled with a crimson liquid. Next to it is a tiny sliver of a red mushroom.
I should drop both items on the cobblestones and forget all about this encounter. What kind of idiot would take something from a stranger? Amelia certainly wouldn’t. She would’ve thrown it away the moment the woman disappeared.
But something niggles in the back of my mind, and before I can think too hard about it, I tuck both items into my bag.
Just in case.
By the time I look back up at the platform, the priests and priestesses have moved. Crimson robes sway in the breeze as they occupy the four corners of the dais, like the Watchers before them. The head priestess stands behind the Given, her hands resting on the men’s shoulders.
“People of Mora, we welcome you to the Giving Festival.”
A cheer rises from the crowd.
She smiles, the expression serpentine. “Today, we celebrate the Given. Tonight, they will commune with the gods in the Moran Gardens. And tomorrow?” She pauses dramatically. “Tomorrow, they will fulfill their gods-given duties as Marked Ones.”
The priests and priestesses hold their hands to the sky. Together, they proclaim, “Blessed are the Given!”
The crowd repeats the prayer, a feverish edge to their words.
Icy beads of sweat trickle down my back, and this time, I don’t have it in me to care what anyone thinks. I turn, running from the stage as fast as I can.
I have to get out of here.