Chapter 7
The Tribunal has a uniform. It’s a simple pair of dark-gray woolen trousers—sturdy and suitable for just about anything.
A loose white shirt of a soft nettle fabric with long sleeves that I roll up to my elbows.
The collar swoops, but not very low. And a leather jerkin over it with a wonderfully high collar.
I won’t have to put the upper part of my scar on display.
I admire myself. A new outfit in Vinguard is usually reserved for birthdays or other major life events.
Resources are scarce here, and we are not a wasteful people.
As Valor Reborn, I’m lucky enough to indulge in clothing more than most, but these pieces are different than what the vicar dresses me in.
Even though the Tribunal is overseen by the Creed, and the vicar by extension, the clothes haven’t been designed to make me stand out, so I know they aren’t Vicar Darius’s choice.
These feel like mine…even if they’re still a uniform.
If I’m going out, at least I’m not dying dressed up like his doll, I think bitterly. I’d rather go out naked if that’d been my only option. This is much better.
Lucan flashes across my thoughts, soaked to the bone in his heavy curate robes.
He’ll have a few weeks free of the vicar’s decree, too.
Like that matters to him. I scold myself for even allowing him to cross my mind.
I’m sure Lucan loves wearing the Creed’s uniform, given how much he relishes in wielding the vicar’s power by extension.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Isola?” It’s Marie, my stepmother. I’m grateful it’s not Father. I still have no idea what to say to him yet after last night.
“Come in.”
She opens the door but doesn’t enter. Marie’s only been a part of my life for three years and is overly cautious of my boundaries as a result. It makes me like her even more, and she’s already a pretty likable person to begin with.
“You look good.” She forces a smile. I can tell because the edges of her eyes don’t crease. She’s worried for me.
“I look like every other supplicant.” I assume. I’ve never seen the opening of the Tribunal. Only full citizens of Vinguard are allowed to witness Convening Day.
“Is that so bad?” The question is layered. Marie might not see all of me, but she sees enough. What she’s really asking is, Haven’t you been trying to blend in every day since the attack?
“It just is.” I shrug and avoid saying anything more. Anything more would flirt a little too much with treason, and while she’s not what I would call a zealot, she is faithful to the Creed.
“Would you like me to pin your hair?”
“I was going to leave it down.” The vicar prefers my wild, raven curls tamed, so I wear them loose when the opportunity arises. Plus…it reminds me of Mum.
“You know I think down and loose suits you best.” Marie’s smile is more genuine now. “And it gives us a little more time at breakfast.”
I follow her, but my toes snag on the threshold of the door.
I memorize my room one last time—the way the motes of dust drift through the sunlight.
The cool scent of the stone. The heavy pelt on my bed that was a birthday gift from Father two years ago.
Maybe Saipha can use it after I’m gone… I wish I could ask Marie to give it to her, but that would mean admitting to believing I’m cursed.
And I might as well say, Kill me now. Mercy.
Throat tightening around all the memories, I exhale them with a heavy sigh and bid my home goodbye.
“Good morning!” Marie’s son, Callon, chimes from the stove as we enter the cramped kitchen.
His coiled hair is a warmer shade of brown than Marie’s, though hers has begun to silver and contrast against her dark-brown skin despite her hardly being middle aged.
“Toast and button mushrooms. Something hearty before you’re forced to live off Tribunal gruel for the next three weeks. ”
No sooner have I lifted my brows in surprise than Marie shushes him. “No details.”
Citizens are sworn to secrecy about what they endured in the Tribunal. They say it’s to prevent anyone from being able to hide the curse by having an advantage in the tests, but I think the Creed just loves keeping people ignorant and powerless.
“Saying the food’s awful is hardly a hint that could give her an advantage.” He rolls his eyes.
He heaps a portion worthy of two people onto my plate as I sit. My stepbrother, as of three years ago, is an apprentice to one of the best stone layers in the city. But I swear he should’ve been a chef.
I force myself to eat, though my nerves steal the food’s taste.
“The Tribunal isn’t so bad,” Callon says reassuringly through bites of his breakfast. “They make everything about it super intimidating, but finding someone dragon cursed is so rare. The tests will push you, but they’re also a chance to show off for guilds and find good mentors, so try to have fun with them. ”
“Callon,” Marie scolds again.
“Mom, it’s not cheating to tell her she’ll be fine. Everything else, she already knows.”
Marie sighs and pushes strands of hair that have fallen loose back into place. She’s one for the letter of the law, which is part of why I think my father fell in love with her. He’s a stickler like that, too.
Speaking of… Father strides into the room. He gives me a quick glance and simply says, “It is time to go.”
“Now?” I shovel another chunk of oil-drizzled toast into my mouth. Callon took out the flaky salt this morning—no doubt just for me—and every bite crunches delightfully like thin sheets of frost shattering, so I leave nothing.
“You haven’t even touched your breakfast,” Callon says dejectedly to Father.
“There will be other mornings. Today is a special day, and we cannot be late.” He’s shepherding me up from the chair and out the door before I can even think of an objection or excuse to stall.
Instinct tells me to grab my satchel before leaving the house.
But not today. I’m allowed nothing but the clothes on my back.
“We’ll meet you there,” Marie says. Father gives her an appreciative look and ushers me out the door to one of the Creed’s ghastly carriages.
They’re excessively ornate and utterly unnecessary in Vinguard.
Very few roads are still wide enough for them—the space has been repurposed for housing—so it’s much faster to walk everywhere.
It’s yet another thing that screams, Look how different I am! I hate it.
“Are you nervous?” Father asks when we’re settled inside its stuffy, velvet interior.
“A little, if I’m being honest.” I shift. It’s the same carriage that transports me to my training with the vicar, but today it feels like I’m sitting on pins.
A flash of Etherlight, and the wheels begin to turn under us as the carriage moves forward. What a waste of the power that keeps Vinguard safe.
Father speaks with pride. “You’ll be exceptional. You’re Valor Reborn. This is the start of your true destiny. Last night was a sign.”
“What if—” I don’t get to finish my sentence. Father stops me by raising a hand. He knows what I’m about to say before I finish. What if I’m not the hero you all think I am?
“We’ve been over this.” Father shakes his head. “You’re always so ready to ask what if you’re not. But what if you are Valor Reborn, Isola? Why not change your instinct to believe it could be true instead of fighting it?”
You’d love that, wouldn’t you? I bite back from saying. Instead, I ask, “You don’t think it’s convenient how people were beginning to lose faith in the Creed and then, suddenly, they have their legendary warrior and all the legitimacy that comes with it?”
“Your eyes,” he says, intending to silence me with the simple fact alone. His one golden eye shines, but I focus on the other. Before the attack, I had the same eyes as his remaining brown one.
“I was alone after the attack.” The words are bitter and harsh. “With them. Unconscious. The vicar could’ve changed my eyes himself and told no one.” The Creed, and the vicar specifically, oversees the gilding.
Father leans away, clearly shocked I’d even suggest it. “Granting connection to the Font through the gilding is something that only happens after the Tribunal—once they’re certain that the curse isn’t present.”
“Vicar Darius makes his own rules.”
“The gilding only makes one eye gold.”
“The vicar keeps so much information locked away.” What I’ve seen is only a quarter of it. “Who knows what he can do that he doesn’t tell us about?”
“When did you become so jaded?” Father frowns. “Did your mother—”
I won’t hear it. I hate it when Father acts like the vicar is everything when all that man has ever done is take from me.
“If I’m jaded, maybe it’s because you persuaded the council to keep me from her when I was just twelve.
” Following their divorce, I couldn’t even see her whenever I wanted until this year when I turned eighteen.
I’m clutching the jerkin over my chest now.
Grasping at the remnants of the dull ache that only her tinctures can relieve. Tinctures I didn’t get.
Dragon-burned hells, I hope she’s got some at the Convening. I don’t know how I’ll survive the next three weeks if not.
Father’s eyes grow cold and distant. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell this apart from his usual stoic expression. But I can. “Your mother—Valor bless her—is a danger to herself. I know you don’t want to believe me when I say it—”
“Then don’t say it,” I cut him off again. Our eyes catch, hold, and I exhale. “Just…don’t.”
For once, he obliges. Silence folds in, heavy but as brittle as the leaded glass that lines the old windows of the Grand Chapel of Mercy.
It feels just as dangerous to shatter. Only the creak of the carriage dares to break it—wood groaning like bones under strain—as if even the wheels sense where they’re carrying me.
My scar itches, sharp and sudden, a phantom reminder of talons and fire.
With every turn of the wheels, the itching gets worse, as if to remind me that I am that much closer to my death.