CHAPTER 6 RAYA
RAYA
When the Council bell rings, we don’t ignore it. Trials are a rare occurrence at the best of times, and there’s not a Shade at the Academy who doesn’t thrill at the idea of witnessing one in real life.
Up until a few months ago, the Council used to carry out their justice in the physical realm, in the gilded chamber they command at the very heart of Sarotuza, where both Shade and typic could hear testimony on the crime.
An exercise in appeasement, my father called it, designed to remind the city that we police our own kind.
The typics enjoy watching us punished. It helps keep their fear at bay and the Church from lashing out.
But that was before a fanatical cleric broke with the sacraments and made a play for power.
The Divine Meridian is his self-proclaimed title, the one true voice of the Gods.
An entirely absurd assertion, but thanks to his budding cult of adoring zealots, the streets have grown more hostile of late, more laden with iron.
For while the Church is only ever a spark away from declaring war against those with color, the Meridians don’t just want to banish us—or even kill us—they want to bleed us.
Because for some unfathomable reason, they believe their messiah’s claims that it’ll immune them to our power.
Yet another absurd assertion, seeing how it’s been proven, time and time again, that possessing our blood achieves nothing.
Neither does injecting it, bathing in it, baking it into bread, or drinking it like wine.
But alas, you cannot reason with madness, and so, after the Divine Meridian killed his third Shade, the decision was made to start conducting trials at the Academy, so as not to present him with an opportunity to target us en masse.
“We are not done talking about this, Raya,” Killen seethes, speeding after me as I make to leave the archives.
“Yes, actually, we are.” I duck clear of his grasp. “So either go tell Lyons, or don’t tell him. Either way, I’m going to watch the trial.”
“Is that what you think I care about? Telling Lyons?” The hurt in his voice is a stone to the gut. “You know what, fuck you, Raya, you always do this,” he hisses. “Every time you think you’re failing, you make the most appalling decision you can.”
“That is not what I do,” I say, though the accusation fits like a glove.
“It’s what you did with us.” He plants himself in front of me. “You had a bad setback so you went looking for an excuse to end things in case the Academy kicked you out.”
“You need to drop this, Killen.” I wish I could shimmer past him. But he can shimmer, too, and he’s faster than I am, and I don’t want to have this particular argument on the run.
“No, not this time. Not until you admit I’m right.”
“Killen—”
“Gods, just admit it, Raya. Don’t you think you owe me that?”
“I ended things because I didn’t love you!
” The truth explodes out of me in a vicious rush, harsh and angry.
And cruel. For six months, I repeated the same lie ad nauseum, just to avoid the hurt now blowing his pupils wide.
So much worse than when I accused him of cheating.
But what can I say—when Killen’s right, he’s right: I do make bad decisions when I’m cornered.
It just so happens that breaking up with him wasn’t one of them.
“No, wait, Killen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” I immediately long to take it back. “Killen, please, wait—”
But he doesn’t, and I can’t say I blame him.
The last thing he needs from me right now is more lies.
With the Council’s summons ringing a stern command through the castle, the corridors are a mess of excitement and eager eyes, all rushing towards the court chamber to jostle for the best view of the proceedings.
“What the hells happened to you?” Akari asks as I join her up by the balustrade, smack bang at the center of the gallery, directly opposite the dock where the accused is going to stand. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
“No, I’m—I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay . . .”
Around us, the chamber yawns as deep as it is wide, the vaulted ceilings stretching up towards oblivion, turbid and black. Behind the dock, the judges’ bench hangs equally thick with shadow, a row of high-backed chairs spaced evenly against its side.
Seven chairs, seven judges.
One to represent each shade of magic.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it now?” Akari presses, placing a gentle hand to my arm. “Because we can.”
“No, really, it’s fine.” I force a smile from my grimace. “Any idea who they’ve caught? Is it a rogue we’ve heard of?”
“Is there a rogue you haven’t heard of?” Her lips quirk with the jibe.
“Very funny,” I say, though I suppose I have been a little more obsessed with the trackers’ news blasts of late, the lists they keep of Shades who’ve broken with the Council.
Shades who—like me—were in danger of having their magic bound and so they ran before that could happen.
Or Shades that flouted the decree against procreating with a typic.
Or Shades that simply didn’t like being told what they could do with their color, or having to sacrifice a percentage of their earnings in tithe.
These past few years, the spate of Shades turning rogue has grown from a slow trickle to a flood, with more than ever choosing to turn their backs on the Council.
Going rogue allows their magic to get stronger.
Wilder. And while exile is the nightmare scenario for me, for others, it’s a tempting proposition, especially now that there are two religious factions vying for power in Sarotuza—one of which is, quite literally, hunting us for blood.
“So, rumor is, it’s not actually a rogue at all—it’s a Hue.” Akari laces the word with scandal.
“Wait—a Hue?” My voice rises an octave. “Like, a real one?”
There hasn’t been a Hue on trial in Sarotuza in over a decade.
They usually put up too much of a fight to reach the court chamber, choosing to die in the struggle rather than be taken alive.
Probably because they don’t see the point of trying to plead their innocence; since their kind is illegal, there is only one verdict the Council can hand down.
If the trackers truly have caught a Hue, then this trial isn’t a trial at all; it’s an execution.
“Yes, a real one—look, here it comes.” Akari points to the door at the rear of the chamber, where a solemn procession is beginning to arrive.
Three trackers up front—as announced by the sickle pins fixed to their collars—then behind them, the Hue, his head held low and his wrists bound in irons, limping ahead of the seven elders who’ll be passing judgement on his crimes.
I guess he did put up a fight. I cringe at the broken sight of him.
Between the split lip, the angry bruises, and the blackened swell to his eyes, all I can really make out is the coppery brown of his skin and the blood caking his hair and hands, the sharp wince of his breaths as he’s shoved to his knees in the dock and chained to the marble, facing the gallery.
“Gods, it’s unnerving, isn’t it? How much they look like us?
” Akari’s whisper is one of a hundred fascinated murmurs rippling through the crowd.
At least half of the Academy has turned up for the occasion, mostly from the older classes, though there are a few younger faces peppered throughout the hall, as well.
Hells, I even spot Saleen’s sullen superiority lurking in the corner—despite her disparaging opinions on the Council.
I guess no Shade can resist the lure of a good spectacle, no matter how hard they pretend otherwise.
“Yeah. Unnerving.” My gut twists in reply.
I’ve never seen a Hue in the flesh before, let alone at this short a distance or in such damning circumstances.
And though I’ve always known that outwardly, they’re indistinguishable from a typic, I never stopped to consider how that would also make them indistinguishable from us.
Apart from the eyes, of course. A full-blooded Shade wears their magic in their eyes.
A spiked rim around the iris for those of us who heed the Council’s call for civility, burned black to the edge for those who choose to walk the lawless path.
Whereas in a Hue, the magic is imperceptible—though I can’t confirm that much for myself seeing how this one is keeping his gaze fixed too firmly on the ground.
That’s what makes these illegal half breeds so difficult to capture: we can’t see their color—and we all bleed red when you cut us, Shades, Hues, and typics alike.
The only way to identify a Hue is to catch them in the act of phasing, an inevitability that often happens in childhood, when the shadows start calling to them in the dark.
I’m actually amazed that this Hue has lasted as long as he did.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s pushing twenty, maybe even twenty-one.