Chapter 8
Kinlear was fourteen, standing in the depths of the summer palace as the wind licked the open penance marks on his skin.
Three times this week, he had broken laws. They were silly ones, like lying or cheating in a card game. Bear’s Bane had become his greatest source of secrets from the servants, which he often used to his advantage in deciding where best he could hide from his mother or the Touvreain Masters.
In today’s particular case, he should have asked the servants about the head cook’s route for the day...for it was that thankless bastard who caught Kinlear shoving his tongue down a servant girl’s throat...and it wasn’t even Absolution Day.
Worth it, Kinlear thought smugly.
For kisses, he’d always pay penance.
It was fun, he’d admit...and it fed a part of his soul he didn’t even know was starved, when others got close to him. Because deep down, he missed home. He missed a different girl, and when he kissed others...sometimes, he imagined her face.
So, over time, penance had become like a silly little game to Kinlear.
He no longer feared it.
It couldn’t be worse than the death he still found each time he fell asleep, and so here he was again, in Touvre’s penance temple. Paying his godsdamned dues.
It was a lovely, sunlit room, a rounded dome open to the outside air, with a single marble table upon which a Sacred could lay to receive their branding. He was surprised the Masters had found any room left on his body upon which to place his mark.
He no longer looked at himself in the mirror when he changed or bathed.
He couldn’t bear to see his own skin.
Birds chirruped happily around him: little flashes of red and yellow, as they danced overhead. They didn’t fear him. Sometimes, they even came to visit him, as if they thought nothing of his ruined back.
The wind whipped through the open windows, kissing his marks.
“Gods be damned,” Kinlear hissed.
It was horrible, the feel of the wind.
His only solace was that it reminded him of Soraya, his only true friend beyond Arawn.
Gods, he’d give anything to see her now, with how much she had to have mastered her pillar as the years had passed.
They’d stayed in contact, to his surprise.
Not a week went by without a letter from her, sent by raven.
Dear Kinny,
Last night, I killed a darksoul in war.
It’s the same as I always do, but this one was young, smaller, even, than me.
I stood there as I watched the light leave her eyes, and I couldn’t help but wonder...to the monsters like her...
what if I’m a monster, too?
Missing you, as I always do,
Soraya
He loved how she wasn’t afraid to be real with him. To be raw and honest, for so few Sacred ever were. So, he’d written her back with his heart in his throat, wishing he could explain to her what he really meant by his words.
Dear Sora,
You’re not wrong. You’re just honest.
Take it from me. I would give anything to be chased
by a monster like you.
Yours,
Kinlear Laroux
He sent every letter like it would be his last.
For each time the raven soared away and came back...he wondered when he would hear that she and Arawn were Matched. They would be perfect together, their magic and their ability to fight.
Even though just the mere thought of it made Kinlear’s stomach twist.
Footsteps sounded out now, drawing him back to the present. It was a delicate, albeit hurried cadence that he knew to be his mother’s gait—and sure enough, the queen of Lordach walked in.
“Kinlear,” she said.
Gods, the way she said his name. It made him feel smaller than a speck in the sand. He wished he had wings like the birds, so he could fly away. So he would never have to hear her say his name like that again.
Like it pained her.
Like it was laced with poison.
“Oh, hello, Mother Dearest,” Kinlear said instead, holding his ground as he sat upright. She winced as she saw the marks upon his ruined skin.
But she had never, not once, stepped in to take the penance for him.
Only Arawn.
“To whom should I credit this most joyous—"
“A Sacred Prince thinks before he speaks,” the queen cut him off. “You would be wise, my Child, to silence your tongue unless you wish to lose it.”
And there it was.
The typical motherly threat that was spun with sugar but cut like the sharpest edge of a knife.
She swept in, gossamer gown trailing behind her as the birds chirruped and flittered away, as if even they sensed their queen’s wrath.
She paused beside the marble table, her floral scent making his head spin.
At least she had the decency to hand him back his cane, which he’d left standing against the domed entryway.
“It’s the third time this week, Kinlear,” the queen said. “The third time you’ve failed to act like a true Sacred prince. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Nothing good, Kinlear thought.
But...Arawn always did.
As nonchalantly as he could, Kinlear reached into his pocket, where he always kept his speaking stone. Like Soraya’s letters, it was like an anchor, a lifeline to holding onto sanity as the days in Touvre stretched on and on.
A second later, the stone warmed. Arawn’s voice filled his mind, heavy with the sound of a sigh. I’m in the middle of yet another meeting with Father, Kin--
What do I have to say for myself? Kinlear thought back, cutting him off as his mother tapped her toe. As she glared at him like he was a disgusting little bug she’d like to squish.
A breath, and Arawn’s voice slid into his mind. ...What?
Kinlear sighed. I paid penance again. Several times.
Why am I not surprised? Arawn answered. Not all patterns are good ones, Kinlear...
But the ladies are so fun to kiss, Kinlear said, and smiled inwardly when he could practically feel Arawn’s embarrassment through the stone’s magic.
Arawn had never kissed anyone. Not even on Absolution, though most younglings were already well into experimenting during those blessed, freeing moments.
Mother is asking me to explain myself, but I’ve developed a sudden lack of giving a damn, he thought back, as the queen stared and stared.
..and he swore he saw her eye twitch with rage.
Gods.
It was worse than he thought.
“Kinlear Laroux,” she demanded. “Do not keep me waiting.”
He could practically feel Arawn’s sigh against his brain. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation through the stone. Just...tell her the truth. Tell her that you forgot your place. That you will do your utmost not to slip again.
And if that’s a bit of a lie? Kinlear thought back.
Arawn sighed again. Don’t make it one. Please, Brother. For your own sake. If you love the gods at all...this time...try to mean it.
The stone went cold as Kinlear pulled his hand away and recited the words back to his mother as if they were his own. “I forgot my place. I will do my utmost not to slip again.”
The queen narrowed her gaze. She pursed her rouged lips. “Your brother’s words are thoughtful, as always, but utterly wasted on you.”
His face heated as she raised her pale brows knowingly. But to his surprise, she didn’t take his speaking stone. Probably because she hoped Arawn’s influence would help change his ways.
“Stand up, Kinlear.”
He sighed. His bad leg tried to buckle, but he refused to let himself fall. He shook with the effort to be tall and strong. To be the son she’d always wanted him to be.
“Look at me.”
He gritted his teeth and looked.
He couldn’t stand the beauty of her face, or the way the strands of her pale hair sparkled in the delicate morning sunlight. She had eyes as blue as the river that ran through Touvre’s center, delicate and pure and true.
His very skin crawled beneath them.
It was so much worse when he realized, more and more, that she looked just like Arawn.
Her perfect Crown Prince.
The child she always wanted.
Kinlear was just the spare. The shadow.
“You were never an easy child to raise,” the queen said, as she smoothed the fabric on her gown.
Her hands shimmered in royal diamonds to match the ones around her slender throat.
“From the day you were born...I knew you carried trouble like a curse. But you always had Arawn at your side. You always had him to ground you. To remind you of your true worth, as a servant of the Five.”
Kinlear gritted his teeth, afraid to say the wrong thing, and he certainly wasn’t stupid enough to say the clever things he wished he could.
“Do you know why you are here, in Touvre,” she asked him, “instead of in the north with your brother?”
It had been two years since he’d seen Arawn, face to face. He missed his twin. He longed to be with him again. To go to Augaurde, where all the best Sacred warriors were stationed. He could feel the absence in his chest, like a piece of him had been ripped away, the wound festering and unclean.
“I’m here because of my illness,” Kinlear answered.
“Yes,” she replied. “But it is not the one you think it is.” Her blue eyes hardened, cold as northern ice.
“It is the illness of rebellion you carry, Kinlear. And it is utterly infectious. If you want to be near Arawn again...if you wish to return to your brother’s side, to serve him when he reigns, to be the good Prince of the North your blood promises you to be.
..then you’ll remember what it means to pay penance so often.
It is not meant to be a cycle of continuous failure.
It is to serve as a reminder. A change of direction. A reset for your very soul.”
She spoke of penance like it was a joy to receive.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mother gain a mark, and for good reason.
No one liked it.
He was just too damned stubborn to stop giving wings to his sins.
She stepped close to him, reaching out only for a second to place her hand upon his shoulder. It was the first time she’d touched him in years. And it took everything in him not to flinch.
“Let this be a reminder from a concerned mother,” she whispered. “Not a queen.” And then she leaned in, close enough that he felt like he was drowning in a sea of roses. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “the penance we pay takes us to our end.”
She left him there, alone in the temple, with his heart beating like a war hammer in his chest.