Chapter 3
Palace Kyr, North of Sattoriya, Tartareia.
Rivulets of blood fall to the ground. Miss Lavandale’s eyes are wide open, but she is unmoving. Her back rests against the off-white facade of the West Wing of the Kyr palace. Her dress, a pretty summer muslin the color of mustard, is now forever stained red.
She’d spent her entire monthly wage to buy it.
A pity that she did not get more uses out of it.
Upsila, my dog, sniffs the pool on the floor. Her tongue darts out to lick the blood but I stop her. She barks at me, unhappy that I am pulling on her leash, but if left to her devices, she would do more damage. She is a hunting dog after all.
There is a large gash on Miss Lavandale’s neck, running from ear to ear. It looks to have been made by a sword, but there is no sharp object nearby. There is nothing that could have harmed her, but harmed she was.
How?
The question plays in my mind on a loop. Staring at her body, frozen in time as it is, I try to comprehend how the situation had degenerated so badly.
A pounding erupts in my ears. My breathing intensifies as guilt overwhelms me.
Did I…do this?
Did I kill her?
With no other person nearby, that would be the logical answer. But I did not do it—I do not remember doing it.
Miss Lavandale came to get me for my lessons in history. We exchanged a few words only, the last being my agreement that I would be there shortly after finishing Upsila’s training. She nodded and said she would wait for me.
That was our last interaction.
I turned my back to her for a few moments and then I heard a scream. When I turned, she was already against the wall, bleeding to death.
The blood flew rapidly at first, but as minutes passed, the flow begins to ebb.
I could not move. I simply stared at her as life left her body.
Even now, I find it hard to move, yet I know I should let someone know about what happened.
The more time passes, the more guilty I will look, even though I consider myself to be innocent.
But am I? Am I truly?
A loud gasp resounds from behind me.
Slowly, I turn.
“I did not do it!” That is the first thing that flies out of my mouth. “It was not me, materi.”
My mother takes a step forward. She appears perfectly put together as always.
Her dark hair is put up in a sumptuous updo despite the fact that it is midday and there are no guests to entertain—today, tomorrow, or for the rest of the week.
But that is the manner of my mother. She is of the opinion that not even the servants can see her looking anything less than perfect.
So every day, she has her maid dress her hair and adorn her in precious jewels from head to toe.
Even her dress, a deep burgundy, is more fit for the ballroom than for a walk in the gardens.
She rests her weight on a walking stick—not that she would need it.
But it, too, is fashionable. The jewel resting at the top of the stick is of the most expensive kind, rapeorite, a stone that is only found in one region of Tartareia that is now the home of the House of Psalis—or the hybrids, as mother would derogatorily call them.
They are of both Aperite and Tartareian descent, but they have sworn their allegiance to our realm some hundred thousands years ago.
Despite wielding great power due to their mixed background, they are only respected out of fear.
Pureblooded Tartareians, like my mother, despise them.
Even though they have legendary abilities, very few have managed to achieve top positions.
They might not be openly reviled because they are beneficial to the realm, but they are openly snubbed.
The fact that my mother proudly displays her rapeorite is an insult since they have long stopped the trade with other houses.
The mere fact that she owns one makes a mockery of their so-called autonomy.
Her grey eyes widen with shock. She does not look at me. She barely acknowledges me. She only stares at the dead body of Miss Lavendale.
Taking a few steps forward, she stops before the puddle of blood. She is wearing expensive shoes, almost as red as the blood. But she would never allow such a lowly substance to touch her.
“Hanth!” She yells. Her voice travels through the palace, reaching my father. He is never far, his ear attuned to every little word or sigh of my mother’s. In a matter of seconds he teleports to our location.
“Inaria?” He asks as he comes toward her. “What is the matter?”
My mother points toward the dead body. He slowly turns, assessing the situation. His lips flatten, his eyes narrowing as his gaze moves from the dead body to me.
“You did this?”
I shake my head.
“Do you see anyone else around?” My mother interjects. “It would not be the first time either,” she mutters under her breath.
“But I did not—”
“Four governesses he’s had and they are all dead. Now it is Miss Lavandale.”
“But—”
“I did not ask for your opinion,” she turns sharply to me.
“I did not kill them either,” I whisper in a low voice.
My father contemplates the issue as he studies the dead body. I can only hope he sees the same as me. She was killed by a blade. I do not have a blade—I am not allowed to carry one.
The only defense I am allowed is Upsila since she can get quite vicious when I am threatened. But Miss Lavandale does not have any bite marks either.
How could I have killed her when not only did I not have a weapon to do so, but I also could not have fought her. For her miniature stature, Miss Lavandale is a grade C spiritual energy user—she has four energy gates open where I have none.
She could have defended herself, yet there are no self-defense marks anywhere.
“I did not kill her, pateri,” I tell him. “You must realize that—”
“Go to your room, Nykander. I shall deal with you later,” he interrupts me.
“But—”
“To your room,” he raises his voice.
Hanging my head down, I beckon Upsila to follow me as I head to my room. The way there is longer than usual, marred by my incessant worrying and a glimmer of guilt.
Despite knowing I did not kill her, I cannot help but wonder if somehow I did.
I am not allowed to cultivate my energy, nor engage in any physical training. I have been told I do not have the aptitude for it. My classes are solely theoretical to at least prepare me for an administrative position once I become of age.
But mayhap an outburst of energy may have caused this—something I cannot control. I have read about cases in which a surplus of energy became erratic because the wielder in question did not have the necessary training to control it.
Could that have happened to me without realizing?
Those thoughts plague me as I close the door to my room. I sigh heavily and remove the leash from Upsila’s neck, letting her roam freely around. She heads straight for her small water fountain and drinks greedily, so I add some food to her bowl to eat in case she is hungry as well.
If only I had heightened hearing abilities like my father… Then I would be able to hear what him and mother are talking about.
My heart is heavy in my chest as I take a seat on my bed. Why does death follow me everywhere?
The first time it happened, I was only three hundred years old.
Too young to understand what had happened when I found my governess in a pool of blood not unlike the one Miss Lavandale was lying in.
If this had happened to anyone else, they would have been soothed and comforted by their parents.
I was neither. I was simply told to go to my room and reflect on my actions.
There had been no kind word, not even a pat on the back.
Even mortal children get more. I have witnessed that during some of my trips to the outskirts of Sattoriya, where some mortal communities live—though I am forbidden to interact with them.
With the ongoing war between Tartareia and Aperion, many mortal communities have been displaced from the intermediary realms—or buffer realms as the history books call them. But whereas mortals and immortals share these lands, they never mingle.
Immortals occupy a high place in the realm, whereas mortals come and go.
Their short lifespan means they are replaceable.
They are the bottom of the social strata, doing menial jobs and dedicating their lives to the comfort of the immortals.
It is a capital crime for a mortal to even look an immortal in the eyes, and if they address one directly, they can expect to be sent to the gallows.
The only way for the two categories to interact is indirectly, through different mediums that ensure the preservation of the hierarchy.
Yet they are odd people, those mortals. Whenever I saw them, they were always running around, laughing and playing.
In spite of their low status, they enjoy their lives to the fullest. Or so I think since I have never been allowed to do that.
Both for fear that I would hurt myself and that I would hurt others—though I have never been told exactly how I could harm them since I have no abilities to speak of.
Those mortal children, so happy and carefree, always struck a chord in me.
At three hundred years old, I was the equivalent of a three year old mortal. Too young to understand death, especially that of an immortal.
The second time, I was only a hundred years old. The following two times followed shortly. Every time, my parents swept the incident under the rug but punished me for it without even getting my side of the story.
For the last few hundred years I thought I finally found a modicum of normality.
Heading into my adolescent years taught me wisdom, or at least, the books did.
I have not been able to go outside as much as I would like to, nor am I able to train like others my age.
I am, at least, allowed to read to my heart’s content.
Soon, however, I will have finished all the books in our library, having read and reread some of them.