Chapter 2
Vessel /ves(?)l/ noun
An unremovable ring, forged of divine craft, capable of housing and protecting a bond between spirit and human.
A conduit for which something flows through.
—Definitions from The Zo Lexicon
I enjoy violence and bloodshed if it’s deserved, or at least assented to, but this execution is neither.
Zarr infantry soldiers, adorned with matte-black armor and spiked shoulder plates, drag a beaten man up the dais steps before dropping him at our feet with a thud. Somewhere in the crowd of witnesses, a woman sobs, and my knuckles turn white over gold armrests. Thankfully, Liha is not here, because I want nothing to do with our power right now. Not when my rage is this close to the surface.
As the chosen heiress of Zarr, my throne rises between Father’s on my right and Mother’s on my left, towering above the assembled court and witnesses below—tan faces against a sea of black stone.
I look to Mother at my side, wishing she’d offer me a loving glance or reassuring touch, like she always gives to my sister, but her face remains cold and regal, pointed away from me. My gaze flicks past the crumpled man, to the assembled crowd, searching for the crying woman. Her helpless whimper sends my heartbeat skidding, which in turn beckons a strange golden spirit. It floats toward me in a wave only I can sense, like it always does when I feel vulnerable or helpless. It”s not Liha. This shimmering presence, swirled with black inside, is much older—more faceted—than the average ghost, or at least it feels that way. I handle its arrival the same way I always do, by taking a deep breath and mentally shooing it away. It lingers a moment before dissipating from the air around me.
Father leans over to me. “Fix your face, Nizzara.”
I arrange my face into the saccharine smile he’s drilled into me, because he’ll punish this poor man longer if I don’t. An expression of malice takes over my face like a second skin, despite the woman’s cries trembling in the distance. I will fix what my father has done to this kingdom, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from him, it is the subtle art of planning.
The man in front of us manages to get a weathered, bare foot beneath him. “Your Majesty, I swear on my family. I’m not a rebel—”
An infantry soldier punches the man’s jaw, knocking him back down to the blood-speckled floor.
When the man dares to lift his head again, Father pushes up from his throne, a snarl curling beneath his youthful, white goatee. “You housed rebels in your inn. That is punishable by death.”
An infantry soldier yanks the innkeeper’s head back by his hair and pulls the man to his feet.
The innkeeper’s stubbly throat bobs. “I didn’t know they were rebels!”
Father prowls toward the innkeeper, his black fur cape trailing against thick winter boots. He snatches the man’s throat and pulls him closer. Small, black gems glisten on Father’s glove as his hand flexes tighter and tighter around the innkeeper’s thin neck.
“Then you will set an example to the rest of Zarr,” Father proclaims, “for what happens when you don’t make it your business to know.”
The innkeeper’s lips turn a subtle shade of blue, but I smile, tension splintering down my jaw as I do.
The throat. His new favorite spot.
Before the innkeeper loses consciousness, Father releases him, dropping the bloody man to the onyx floor. When he doesn’t stir, Father returns to his throne, his cape unfurling over the armrest as he sits. I can tell by the flat angle of Father’s brows, he’s already bored.
Black smoke crawls from his gloved hand, and the room falls silent, for everyone knows what’s hidden beneath that glove. The First-Made Vessel, a white ring bonded to his hand and the conduit of his spirit’s power. My father”s black smoke slithers toward the innkeeper, taking hold of his thin body, like a puppet whose master just pulled the strings.
Sorren, Father’s infantry general, emerges from his men, withdraws his sword, and holds it out for the innkeeper to take. Father’s power forces the innkeeper to take it from Sorren’s outstretched hands. I’m just thankful it’s a sword, and not Father’s soul gun.
The innkeeper’s own hands betray him, as they aim the sword for his neck.
My face, still fixed into a comfortable grin, matches everyone else’s as they perk up in unfettered anticipation; the woman’s cries are now screams scratching down the black walls.
The innkeeper stabs the sharp, gleaming blade through his own neck, and blood soaks his gray garb. After he falls to the floor, a soft blue soul departs from his body. It floats away as the woman screams.
Heat pricks my eyes, but for all the world, I smile.
A Zarr infantry soldier goes to kick the dead innkeeper for fun, but I can’t bring myself to watch. If I do, I’ll likely ram a blade up that soldier’s ass, which would not end well for anyone. To distract myself from the sound of spiked boots beating dead flesh and the tears pricking my eyes, I study the vessel on my middle finger, memorizing all the places its gold tendrils sink into my skin. There are three kinds of vessels: Silver Military Vessels worn by Zarr infantry, gold Second-Made Vessels, worn by kings and nobility, and the single white First-Made Vessel.
My father’s vessel.
The woman manically pushes through the crowd toward her dead husband, shoving people to get to him. When she breaks through the crowd with trembling hands and agony so rich on her face I feel it, my father waves his hand.
“Kill her too.”
The woman screams and fights as Zarr infantries silence her with a blade. I close my eyes, reminding myself that infantry soldiers and castle guards have no choice. Their silver Military Vessels bow to the First-Made Vessel—to my father. They follow every direct command, whether they want to or not, defending the three kingdoms, re-opening trade routes, and extinguishing every last rebel who remains loyal to the last Zarr king.
The young king my father overthrew.
Zarrs never forgive. Their hatred for my father will last for generations, even though Dagen, their beloved king, is long dead.