Chapter 8 #2
When his mother arched her eyebrows expectantly, he sighed and added, “The royal priest claims it was Baellas and Daeban fighting over me. A spat between two immortal lovers. Baellas won, and as a bitter loser, Daeban left her signature greys as a reminder of death’s strength.”
He felt ridiculous every time he said it. The idea of the goddesses of life and death sparring over him was laughable.
But it had worked so far. People adored the drama, the grandeur, and more importantly, the story shut them up. They didn’t question it further. Nobody would ever question a royal priest.
Which was funny because there was no royal priest. August had learned about the six gods through lessons from a tutor.
The aesran pressed her lips thin, studying him from across the room.
“I’m going to catch up with Lottie,” August said, moving toward the door, hoping she’d let him pass.
As he drew close, she raised her hand, the quick movement causing him to flinch back. He was too familiar with the sting of her discipline. But she was only motioning for him to wait.
He blinked, urging his pulse to steady.
“The only reason you’re attending is to reassure the public that you are, in fact, still breathing,” she said, not unkindly, only matter-of-fact. “I know you’d rather not go, but if you get through this without drawing attention, you’ll be free to hide yourself away again, as you like.”
Fine lines gathered near the corners of her eyes and lips, the first signs of wrinkles brought on by fake smiles she wore for the masses. It had been so long since he’d been this close to her he hadn’t noticed them coming on.
“If it goes well,” asked August, “can I join Lottie on the days she goes out?”
“No,” the aesran snapped, the sharpness startling him. She paused to soften her expression. “Why would you want to leave the safety of our castle? You remember what happened, don’t you?”
A flash of memory pushed its way forward. The attack in the market square. The guard’s skin melting off his face. The fear that had never fully gone away.
It had been August’s first close-up experience with wielders, and had ended with the City Watch executing four right there on the street.
“It’s not safe,” she added. “You know this.”
She may have been right, and her words were gentle on the surface, but threaded through the tone was a word left unsaid: prison.
He would never have her permission to leave.
He was stuck here, chained to this fate.
Which was worse? The possibility of his death or the inevitability of him on the throne?
His eyes dropped to her arm where her high glove had slipped, revealing strange, inky marks curled around her bicep, like charcoal smudges. His brow furrowed.
A reminder of death’s strength. The thought struck, unbidden.
“Do you understand, Augustus?”
He quickly lifted his gaze to meet hers. “What? Oh, yes, of course.”
“Good. Now go. The guests have arrived. They’ll be admitted to the banquet room shortly.”
Dinner was excruciatingly tedious, though August supposed that was better than catastrophic.
The massive tables were arranged in the same U-shape that he remembered, his mother at the centre of the head, he and Lottie one one side, the place where his father’s chair used to sit on the other, the space glaring like an open wound.
August hadn’t paid attention to the names of the guests as they entered. They had filled up the twenty or so chairs on either branch of the U, all lace and frills and layers of jewelry. Painted lips and trimmed mustaches.
A quartet of musicians played in the corner of the room, the music slow and lackluster. Monochromatic compared to the iridescent melodies he’d heard in the market square.
At least the food was good.
August kept his eyes glued to his plate, the clatter of cutlery a dull backdrop to his thoughts.
When the wait staff whisked away the second course, he pulled the ring from his pocket, fidgeting nervously with it beneath the table, needing something to occupy his hands. It was still ice cold.
Dessert arrived, and when August looked up, a handful of the guests were watching him, their lips moving in conversation.
He avoided meeting their gazes, his eyes sliding over their heads, landing on the anchored at the edge of the room, their chief butler, Callum, who’d died a few years ago.
The familiar face was one he encountered often in the castle, and his presence loosened the knot in August’s stomach, just a little.
Funny that the dead were more of a comfort than the living in his present company.
Callum gave an encouraging nod, and August quickly looked away. Comforting or not, he’d rather not acknowledge the anchored.
His attention caught on the massive portrait of a man with sharp features and green eyes. His grandfather, Aesveran Augustus Henrik Ellingwood.
The corners of August’s mouth turned down as he studied the portrait.
Aesveran Augustus. The name of August’s future. His life sentence.
Suffocating.
He could still feel the eyes of the guests boring into him like a thousand tiny insects crawling on his skin as the dirt piled atop, burying him alive. He needed air.
Trapped.
Ruling meant being watched. Scrutinized. He wasn’t a wielder—he wasn’t. But if his abilities were discovered, would he be executed like one? Like the wielders who’d attacked his guards? Shot without a second thought?
At the very least, he’d be banned from the castle. His mother wouldn’t let him stay. The laws wouldn’t allow him to rule—well, alright, that part he was fine with.
But he’d lose Lottie, and that was a consequence worse than death.
How could he keep this secret when everyone was staring at him? The truth felt glaringly obvious.
August’s fingertips tingled, and the air around him shimmered the way it had when—
No.
He set the ring beside his plate and curled his fingers around the edge of the table.
Stop, please stop.
He’d seen the air look like this before. He knew what it meant. Knew what it was.
Even after four years, he still saw the anchored woman clearly, standing over him as he woke in his bed.
Do not be afraid, Mo Aesling. I am here to save you. She was so real, her edges so solid.
To this day, he wasn’t sure why he’d followed, but he did. Out of his bedroom, past Lottie’s door, up the stairs, all the way to the highest tower. He stood in the window, staring down at the castle grounds bathed in silver moonlight, the city beyond perfectly still.
He’d felt it then, as he felt it now—the veil between worlds thickening to a fabric beneath his fingertips.
Could the guests see it? They were watching. They were going to know.
Run.
He cursed and pushed up from the table, the chair scraping loudly.
“Sit down, Augustus,” his mother hissed, glaring up at him.
He shook his head frantically. “Mm-mm. Nope. I can’t.” His voice was louder than he’d intended, drawing the attention of the entire room.
Lottie stood gracefully. “I’ve got it, Mother.”
She led him away with a gentle hand on his back, out into the hall, not stopping until they were standing in the foyer, surrounded by wallpaper the same pattern as his waistcoat.
“Auggie,” she started, but her sentence fell away as she took in his expression. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I can’t be in charge of anything,” he blurted, his voice too high.
“It’s too much responsibility. I can’t even take care of myself.
” His eyes flicked to the intricately carved doors, desperate for an escape.
“I haven’t eaten a vegetable in three months, Lottie.
If it weren’t for you nagging me, I probably wouldn’t have bathed in as long.
How can they expect me to rule an entire country? No. No way. I can’t.”
Lottie brushed back his hair and pressed her forehead to his. “Hey, look at me.” He did. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone. I’m here with you, and I always will be.”
“What if they find out?” he asked.
She pulled back, brow furrowed as she studied him. “Find out what?”
Lottie knew about his ability. She’d always known. But they didn’t talk about it anymore. Not since the attack. Apparently, she wasn’t eager to stop pretending.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall.
“Go,” Lottie said softly, lifting the circlet from his head. It was thin and nearly weightless, but its absence felt like freedom. “Get some air. Take a walk. I’ll cover for you, tell Mother you’re sick. She won’t go anywhere near your room if she thinks you’re contagious.”
August offered a grateful smile, then turned and pushed through the front entrance. He paused and took a deep breath, but the feeling in his fingers remained.
So he kept going.
Out. He needed out.
He followed the path around the side of the castle to the expansive gardens, where the cloying scent of flowers wrapped around him, heavy and suffocating. Then he slipped through the wrought-iron gate to the castle’s cemetery. Three anchored turned to watch as the gate closed behind him.
Out.
He kept walking, eyes down as he passed through the gravestones to the temple of Daeban, a crumbling stone building used only for royal funerals.
A dead, knotted tree towered overhead, its branches bare and reaching, like a clawed beast in the fading daylight.
August hesitated in the open doorway.
The last time he was here alone was right after his father’s funeral.
The temple had once been a place where he and Lottie played pretend. They’d found a secret staircase hidden behind a thick tapestry and had spent countless hours exploring the underground tunnels.
It felt different now. Heavier. Haunted, not only by anchored, but by the memory of his father in a casket and the agony of saying goodbye. Of coming back later that night after hours searching the castle for his anchored, so angry at him for not staying.
August took a breath and stepped inside. The interior of the temple was dark, but he easily found the place where the doorway was hidden.
He moved blindly through the endless stretch of narrow hallway—avoiding the side tunnels that would lead back into the castle or outside the city—until he reached the door he knew would deposit him in a small prayer shrine just outside the castle walls.
The rest of the walk was easy. He’d carved the path between the two places over and over in his head, for no other reason than to hold onto the tiny bit of hope that he could go back some day.
When he finally stopped, he was standing in front of the small pub. Only then did the feel of needles in his fingertips finally fade.