Chapter Fifteen
Identity
Drusilla stalks a few paces ahead of us, acting as an unnecessary guide down several flights of stairs until we reach the wide gray hallway leading to the Throne Room, where every step forward is felt in my bones.
Cirrin takes hold of my arm, providing a gentle pressure to keep me moving, while Fray peers over and notes the contact with a quick release of breath.
Cool mist infiltrates my skin, soothing while it infuses me with energy. Though even Cirrin’s healing magic cannot settle my nerves, twisting and turning my stomach the closer we move toward the stage entrance.
Please, stop.
We have yet to publicly acknowledge Hendry’s death.
I can’t do this.
We need to bury him. Properly.
I won’t make it through this.
We should be honoring him, not naming his replacement.
Not hosting a ceremony, showcasing our lack of care for him and his service.
To the Dragons, the Empire, and me.
I cannot possibly pretend. Not today, and not like this.
My knees wobble once we come to a pause before the tall gray arches leading to the stage. I try and fail to pull on my mental wards, needing them to help wall off my feelings. Heart hammering with the inability to pull those internal doors closed, the ones I rely on so often.
Though no matter how hard I scramble for purchase, the Godsdamned things refuse to slide into place. Refusing to block me from all that is coming.
I reach out for my magic, then furrow my brow, as it is not much weaker than it has been of late, leaving only one other option as to why my wards will not slam into place when nothing else has changed—
Dread pools in my abdomen as I scan the perimeter for a certain sorcerer who must be nearby. The only one who is known to disarm me in this way.
“Straighten your posture. Your arrival will be announced next,” Drusilla says.
“Come on.” Fray delicately places his hand over the decoration on my shoulder. “We’ll be with you the whole time.”
A small laugh escapes me, quickly silenced by the chilled knuckles I press to my lips. “Of course you’ll be with me. You are always with me.”
Imperial Guard Roy studies me, his expression filling with concern as he follows my lead, settling into formation as I comply with what is expected and stand in the center of my Guards as we await our announcement.
The drummers strike up the beginning notes of my song while the acolytes pour out, waving the banner for each of my Guards—all except for Hendry, whose signet must now be retired.
I nearly don’t hear the Imperial page projecting his voice to announce my remaining Guards, with special mention of their status as Anomalies—misfits born with immeasurable powers.
More acolytes file out from the servants’ entrance, waving my banners with an eclipsed moon framing the outline of a Dragon’s Fury flower, woven with the same golden thread beneath our Empire’s sigil as the page announces my name and title.
“Come on,” Lars says, delicately pressing his fingertips alongside my spine when I stiffen.
Cirrin steps between Roy and me, considering me with an expression of sympathy. “What would Hendry say if he were standing there right now?” Cirrin asks, gesturing to my left where my former Lead Guard stood every day since my eighteenth birthday.
Tears sting with the memory of his voice repeating the saying only yesterday morning—
“We do this for them,” he says, and the meaning of the phrase infiltrates my every atom, somehow knowing this all along without ever having thought of it consciously. “We do this so they might live in a better world than our ancestors. We endure for their right to a better life.”
“They are why we do this,” I squeak, and Cirrin nods. “We endure for their right to a better life.”
“We do this for them,” Fray says, stepping in.
“We do this for them,” we all chant in unison.
Something in the way our voices meld together while forming the words of our lost brother seems to bolster me in a way I never would have guessed, propelling me forward through those gargantuan gray stone arches with my Guards.
A formidable faction—the Anomalies of Ampara Deicra, prepared to take on whatever the Emperor forces upon us.
Hendry’s saying bolsters me as we step onto the stage without him to my left for the first time since he was appointed to lead my detail, casting my gaze over those who await our presence.
Needing the strength he infused into this saying—his belief, held with such conviction—to aid me in taking the next step without his commanding presence.
Something I had never thought so stabilizing until it was lost, feeling his absence more now as I realize it.
The farther we walk, the more it seems the walls are closing in. Feeling as if the unbreakable stone ceiling is collapsing over our heads and we all need to run from here.
Yet the citizens stare up from their curved wooden pews, marveling at us Anomalies.
The beings who need me to play my role. Because this act is my duty.
My way of protecting what little rights they’ve been given.
Precisely what Hendry meant when he said, ‘We do this for them.’ Every action we take to stabilize the Emperor’s temper is one more to protect the citizens from what may occur were we to rebel instead.
Dramatic lighting casts over us as we near our place upon the stage. Rare sunbeams stream through the giant arched windows—so tall they nearly reach the domed ceiling.
Witches young and old stare at my being with a mix of wonder and admiration from the wall—where they must attend to the soldiers' emotions—to the pews where they support the telekinetic Guards. Those seated next to each other lean over to whisper in another’s ear, yet their gaze never wanders from the singular witch allowed on the stage made for sorcerers.
My magic rushes out to detect the emotions felt by the crowd.
Their chests and stomachs all swirl with excitement, and the heightened intensity overwhelms my senses, skin crawling with the level of expectation they place upon me.
Yet my feet keep moving with my overprotective speed Guard’s encouragement, urging me forward until we take our place to the right of the throne.
We obediently face the audience from the center of the round stage while my heart punches against my sternum.
Despite Wyrth and his Guards staring over, I cast my gaze to those occupying the seats on high, where the witch who birthed me engages in an animated conversation with Cirrin’s mother.
My father leans so far back in his seat, it’s quite possible he has fallen asleep in between each of my Guards’ families who have all been given the seats of honor along the front row.
Families. Not just parents. Siblings with whom my Guards once shared bedrooms and traditions.
Whom they bickered and played with during our bi-annual celebrations.
Those they can confide their frustrations with related to their shared parentage.
An old ache wedges its way into my heart, as if there is a chair left empty where I can imagine having watched my younger brother grow from afar, had Wyrth kept his word and saved him from a complicated pregnancy.
Were Taran alive today, would he resent me for my position? Or feel pride from our connection? Or, perhaps he might have taken after his mother in gloating about our shared bloodline?
Or would he have hated me and all I represent, working alongside the Emperor as his infamous pet?
Lost in thought, my gaze wanders until it lands on General Sal as he stares back.
Pulse pounding from the shift in his expression, which has fallen and become uncharacteristically grim.
I send a thread of curiosity to his chest, and my stomach drops with the level of jealousy, envy, and frustration churning within him.
There should be only one reason he would feel this way. One I refuse to accept until proven.
An eerie silence settles over the audience—one which should create some form of noise with the amount of souls filling the space.
Yet every citizen in attendance sits in silence and stillness while my gaze roves over the crowd, looking for the one sorcerer I hope to be absent because he has been sent away on a southbound train.
A sorcerer who cannot be seen within the line of soldiers standing with their backs to the rounded walls.
Nor among the telekinetic Guards stationed on the end of every pew, actively attuned to every witch and sorcerer in their assigned area, prepared to alert us should there be any attempt to use a form of unsanctioned magic.
Still no sign of the one I seek. Which should be a comfort.
Yet I cannot seem to stop shaking. Waiting.
Filled with uncertainty as Imperial Priest Kado steps forward, holding his arms out before him in an awkward bow, donning the gaudy Imperial black and gold robes with his hands clasped inside the absurdly large sleeves obscuring them.
Dizziness overtakes me when the drummers strike up the first notes of the Emperor’s ceremonial entrance song.
My vision swims when the acolytes stream in from the servants’ entrance, blurring in my periphery as they wave his banners, acting as if replacing my Lead Guard is something worthy of celebration.
The sinister tempo of his song rises with my pulse until it plateaus, signaling our ruler’s arrival.
The page’s voice projects into the crowd, announcing his title before stepping out past His Majesty’s attendant, Lorn.
The Emperor storms in with his natural cadence, shifting his path over the black velvet carpet to aggressively brush his arm against my own, encasing me in a cloud of his wine and sulphur scent while his tiny spy spins to stare back.
My nostrils flare as he stands before his throne, flanked by his Guards, each offering sneers to my own, presenting a stage filled with most of the Empire’s strongest sorcerers, and myself.