23. Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Zeph
A nother evening spent lying flat on my back, staring at my ceiling, has blended into a morning spent lying flat on my back, staring at my ceiling.
The longer I am away from Viola, the more hopeless getting her back seems to be.
Not that you can get back something you never really had.
Just being around her filled a gap in me I never knew was there. My mind is a constant loop of the memories I have of her, and even here in my home, I feel her presence everywhere.
Will I ever feel whole again?
This hole in my chest is as much a piece of me as anything else at this point, and I worry it will never close.
I don't want Himureal to see how much being away from Viola affects me. He has this plan to collect followers in hopes of being prepared for when she returns, and he'd see it as motivation to push things farther, faster, to get her back to me and ignore the plan.
And I should want that, right?
I mean, I do want that, but guilt is starting to creep up at my deception of the entire city. Slandering Mace's name has had more of an effect than I thought it would. The citizens are devastated, half refusing even to consider the story may be real and the other half constantly in mourning for a leader they loved but feel they lost.
It gives me pause. Was I the only one who saw Mace as a conniving fae who manipulated people for his own gain?
I try to remember when I first started feeling that way, the moment I went from adoring my older brother to despising him.
When our parents died.
Their deaths hit us both hard, and we clung to each other, unable to fathom a world without them in it. Our mother, a bright light to all who knew her and our father, a safe harbor regardless of the storm, snatched away from us entirely too soon.
Then Stone came and pulled Mace away to take our father's place as a Patrician. He shortly rose through the ranks and was elected as the head. From the moment he was put as an interim member in Father's spot, I barely saw him. He was so consumed with his work that I was left to grieve our parents on my own.
And I've never forgiven him for it.
I even planned their funeral without him. He came, of course, but Stone whisked him away as soon as it was over, declaring he had more work to do.
When I dissect it, I realize it is possible that none of that was Mace's doing and that, in his despair, Stone manipulated him and controlled his movements. If that is what happened, am I a monster for how I have treated my brother?
Regardless of the intent behind either of our actions, we both clearly hurt one another. I let that obsession with hurting my brother boil up to attacking him.
I groan, the memory of beating him half to death pushing down on my chest, spearing through the hole left by Viola, and pinning me to my bed in agony.
How could I?
The more I think about what I've done, the more I realize my only choice is to work with Himureal.
I won't be able to get their forgiveness on my own, so I have no choice but to force it.
Himureal leans on his hand, elbow resting on his knee. Today, he's wearing pure white, head to toe. His hair is plaited down his back, tendrils escaping and wrapping around his beautifully severe face.
Viola would always wear her hair the same way.
I try to find a resemblance between the two, my mind trying to connect him calling her daughter with the literal definition of the word, but there is nothing there. They both hold severe resting faces, but Viola's eyes are always warm. Himureal is ice incarnate, and there is no warmth within him at all.
The ballroom is empty, and Himureal is the worst type of company as he glowers from his makeshift throne. I sit below him on the dias, reading the book he gave me on the responsibility of a high priest. One hand stays in my pocket, rolling Viola's obsidian stone between my fingers.
I'm not sure why I bother researching within this book since so much of this revolves around the draw to vocation that I don't have. The books describe it as a tether between the God and the priest that pulls them towards one another, and the priest cannot help but answer the call to protect and support the God in all they need to do.
The God must accept the service of the high priest. Without that explicit acceptance, the high priest will falter, unsatisfied, and unable to do anything else with their life except work to earn the acceptance of their vocation. Another God cannot take the vocation from a high priest allotted to a fellow God.
It's almost unheard of for a God to reject their priest. It is a great shame to be rejected by their God, and it may result in the high priest losing their grip on sanity or even ending their own life.
Looking at Himureal, that type of passion is certainly not what I am feeling. Most of my emotions are fear wrapped in frustration that he won't listen to me about the best way to gain followers. I certainly do not care if he wants me to continue as his high priest.
In fact, I would prefer he didn't.
Of course, I cannot tell the volatile, vindictive God that I don't want to devote myself to him.
I slam the book shut and look up at him. "The bar may not have worked, but we have to do something other than sitting here just waiting for people to come. I have no doubt that with every day that passes, Viola is closer to bringing your siblings into the world. If we would just go get her…"
He interrupts me quickly. "We cannot get her until I have followers. She must either come to me on her own or see that the people want this- that they want us."
I want her, but I wonder if the people of Ytopie would be so swift to accept her. They are quite stuck in their ways, and she is a human, after all. But Viola would need to see proof that this union would work before she abandoned her plan, which means we need something to boost the public perception of Himureal.
An idea hits me. "Maybe we can do a tournament, a festival, something? Just some sort of joyous event that would show the people you are going to enrich their lives."
His head perks up. "A tournament? People fighting for my favor? I like the idea of it."
I shake my head. "Well, not for your favor. We'd need to pick a prize, but you'd be the judge. So they'd be competing for you, to impress you. It could be a good way to get people to see you as a God without you demanding they come into the ballroom and worship you."
He's considering my idea, leaning back on the large chair he brought in here when he first arrived in Ytopie. He crosses an ankle over the top of his knee, steepling his fingers as he thinks. The position reminds me so much of Mace it makes me miss him briefly. "I think you're onto something, high priest. We used to do trials to pick a champion for each God. It was mostly just a ceremonial title, but they were technically to be called on to be generals for us in the event of war."
I wince. "There have been no wars, not since we colonized Ytopie. I'm not sure how the people would react if they were told this was to find war generals. Even though you seem to think that is on our horizon."
He waves his hand, dismissing my thoughts. "No, of course not. You will do well to keep that between us two. I still think we can stop Viola before it gets that far." He taps his chin in thought, the severe lines of his face slacking slightly in thought. "We will call the winner the Winter Champion. Or the Frost Champion. We don't need to decide now."
"So you want me to do this - to start planning it?"
He nods, rising from his chair. "Yes, now. I want to start in two days." He brushes nonexistent dust from his white pants.
I stand with him, balking. "Frostweaver, respectfully, I cannot do this in two days. We don't even have events planned yet, no one signed up to participate, none of the proper authorizations…"
"You're the one who does the authorizing. You'll figure this all out. I believe in you, high priest." He pats me on the chest, ignoring the way I flinch back from the chill of his magic, and moves out of the room towards the door. "Oh, and you're, of course, going to be the master of ceremonies, Zeph." His eyes rake down my body, judgment in his gaze as he takes in my tan shirt and blue trousers. "Get some nicer clothes and clean up your beard."
"A tournament?" Cirrha balks at me from across the table at the Hasty Butcher.
"It's more like a competition. And I need to do it in two days." I scratch the back of my neck as I look down at the paper in front of me, which is littered with crossed-out ideas.
Cirrha isn't still fully on board with the series of events I spelled out for her, but she has been more willing to work with me lately. I think she feels betrayed by Mace for keeping her in the dark or leaving her behind. I'm not sure which. Either way, I can use her to my advantage.
She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. "Okay, so we're doing three events. What's the first one?"
"Targets. They can use a bow, magic, or whatever they want to get the arrow in the center of the targets. They have to hit three to move on to the next round."
"I like that one. It's competitive but safe, and the magic can help those without archery skills as an equalizer, so no one person should have too much of an advantage." She takes a sip of her glass of mead, one hand rubbing her temple. "Next one?"
I squint and try to read through the scribbles on the paper in front of me. "I've got nothing. I was thinking of something less physical and more mental. A quiz or trivia?"
She scoffs at me, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling as if I could not have said anything stupider. "No way. That is not thrilling for a crowd. Or our cruel God."
I grit my teeth and run my hands down my face in frustration. "Do you have a better idea?"
Cirrha shrugs and shakes her head. I immediately wish Loris was here, despite the tension in our friendship lately. He would have a lot of ideas for activities that are relatively safe and would excite a crowd.
"What if we do a test of bravery?" I say quickly. She nods excitedly, and it boosts my confidence. "We could utilize fire, heights created by Geomancers, beasts…"
She cuts me off. "You want to bring beasts into the city?"
"Only ones the Springs can control. If they pass all tests of bravery, they move on to the final round. I'm thinking of a locked room designed specifically for that contestant to keep them inside. They must use their magic, wit, and strength to get out. You'll set up a connection mesh in each room so we can watch them. The first one out would win."
Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. "I see a lot of potential danger here, Zeph."
"No one said it's going to be easy, Cirrha." I down my glass, rubbing the spot where it burns my chest as I swallow it. "Do you think the Frostweaver is going to want a champion that didn't have to battle for it?" Especially if we may end up in war. But I don't say that part out loud.
She rolls her eyes. "How are you going to convince people to sign up?"
A sly grin spreads across my face. "A killer prize, of course."
I can tell she's not a fan of my theatrics. "Well, that's a given, Zeph. What kind of prize?" Cirrha has always been very no-nonsense. I have to think it's why she and Mace got along so well. Neither of them are much fun at parties.
"Not only will the winner gain Himureal's favor as his champion, but they'll win my vacated seat on the Patricians."
She balks. "You're really never expecting Mace to come back, are you? You're just going to slide into his spot for good?" There is an undercurrent of sadness to her words. Would him being gone for good be such a bad thing?
My guilty heart says it would be. I push that thought away as quickly as it comes. Mace has not been my brother for a long time, but for some reason, since he's been gone, I've only thought of him as such.
Shaking my head, I lean forward on my elbows. "If he makes it back here, he'll be thrown in jail, Cirrha. There's nothing I can do about that. I'll be elected permanently as head, and then it is my responsibility to appoint the rest of the board. The winner will get that empty spot."
Cirrha leans back in the booth, crossing her arms. "It just may be enough. Let's see if we can get some participants."