15. Chapter Fifteen Bahira
Chapter Fifteen: Bahira
A knock at the door pulls me from sleep, my eyes slowly opening as I stretch my arms overhead. “Yes?” My voice is gravelly as I call out.
“You have a Flame Ceremony to attend this morning, Your Highness. It is time to get ready.”
I groan out a “thank you,” rolling to my side on the bed and silently cursing the ancient mages who thought doing these ceremonies right after the sun rose was a good idea.
My father attends every blood ceremony in the kingdom, as the participants must travel to the Temple of Petalum in Galdr. I didn’t start attending them until I began investigating what is blocking our magic. Now I try to attend them all to make note of how large the flame is for each of our newest magic users. It’s all data to me; the trick is figuring out how to take that data and turn it into something that I can experiment with, something that is tangible.
I lay in bed a little longer, running through different theories and ideas in my head. Once magic is expelled from mages, by infusing water or casting a spell on a physical object, it doesn’t seem like it can be used to influence someone else’s magic. I have run experiments to see if stronger mage magic can fill in the gaps of a weaker mage’s spells. The magic stays completely separate from each other, not absorbing or able to be used outside of its original intended purpose. Admittedly, there isn’t a ton known about the origins of mage magic, though many ancient mages have done plenty of their own experimenting on it. So not only am I trying to understand why it’s suddenly not working as it used to, but I’m also trying to decipher where our magic actually comes from. I do know that we have a magical relationship with the land, and that in part, is why mages can manipulate the elements as they can.
Stumbling out of bed, my vision is still blurry as I draw the curtains open in front of the veranda attached to my room. Pushing the wood-encased glass double doors open, I step out into the cool early-morning breeze. Thick green and purple vines wrap around the slats that make up the roof for the outdoor space, creating a natural shade cover. Little flowers—no bigger than my thumb nail—in pink and white dot the vines, their sweet, delicate scent barely a hint in the wind. The dawn’s golden rays trickle through the gaps in the thick canopies of the banya and pirang trees that tower above us, their wild limbs intertwined together in a chaotic vision of brown and green. Blue and gold macaws squawk at each other from the branches as they wake from their resting, preparing to take flight for their morning hunts. As much as I want to complain about being up so early, I find it easier instead to take in the beauty of the land. Of my home.
On the way to the bathroom, I stop at the other three windows in my room to open the curtains until all the shadows are chased away from their corners by the light filtering in. I start the shower, and within seconds, steam curls around me as I step in, the hot water raining down from the spout above me. My muscles instantly relax from the heat. Another groan, this one less annoyed, echoes off the tiled stone walls around me.
After I’ve showered, I braid two front sections of my hair around the crown of my head, leaving the rest of the thick, curly waves down to air dry. Generally for ceremonies, it is expected that the attendees dress a little more formally than the everyday relaxed garb. Moving around my closet, I thumb through the blouses, skirts, and dresses hanging from metal hooks attached to a carved tree branch. Shorts, pants, and undergarments are folded neatly into a wooden dresser tucked into the corner. I choose a flowy white off-the-shoulder blouse to be tucked into a deep plum high-waisted skirt. I add a silver chained girdle belt with attached amethyst stones to complete the look. Stepping in front of the standing mirror in the corner of my room, I smooth out the fabric of the skirt and center the belt as another knock on the door sounds.
My mother’s voice comes from the other side. “Bahira, it is time to leave. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” I call back, running to the closet to grab a pair of light brown leather flats. I join her out in the hall when I’m finished, linking arms with her as we head towards the stairs.
“Do you know if it is a little boy or girl whose Flame Ceremony we are attending today?” I ask.
“A girl,” my mother responds, her serene voice carrying in the staircase. She gives my arm a little squeeze as we round a corner and see my father standing in the receiving hall in his traditional mage robe. The navy and silver garments are embroidered with the Mage Kingdom sigil of an albero tree under the stars and were made to wear specifically for important events like a Flame Ceremony or a royal council with another king or queen. The crushed velvet material is tailored perfectly to his tall frame, barely brushing the tops of his feet. He holds a staff of wood made from a banya tree, the top adorned with a smooth round piece of black dragon stone.
My father pulls me into a hug, his chin resting on my head affectionately. “Did you sleep well, Daughter?”
I nod, the movement difficult in his embrace. When he releases me, I step back and see Daje standing behind him. Dressed in his finery, the dark green and gold long-sleeved tunic fits impeccably paired with his dark brown trousers. Black boots complete his look, and even I must admit that he fills the outfit out well. Our gazes briefly clash, an apology written in his eyes that I accept with a nod.
My father holds out his hand for my mother with a look of pure adoration. While their marriage was somewhat arranged—my father, then the crown prince, and my mother, the daughter of a former mage on the council—their foundation is built entirely on the love they have for each other. It’s the kind of the love that sustains, that encourages and supports. That allows room for challenging each other while knowing that there will always be a safe spot to land. It is such a unique thing, a once in a lifetime kind of love.
We wait in the receiving hall for the rest of the council to join us. When all ten are finally present—eight men and two women—we proceed through the tall wooden double doors leading out to the front of the palace. The woodsy scent of the forest surrounding us permeates the chilled air, my bare shoulders breaking out in goosebumps from the cooler temperature. In groups of two we take the steps down from the palace and out to a gray stone landing where four horse-drawn carriages are waiting. I watch as my parents and two of the oldest councilmen get in one carriage while the remaining eight council members split up equally into two more. Which leaves one left for just Daje and I to ride in. Our carriages are carved from the dense light-colored wood of the albero tree and left open at the top, letting the elements in. When the temperatures dip in the winter or when rain or snow falls from the sky, the carriages can be spelled to keep the occupants dry and warm.
Daje opens the door and extends a hand out to help me up, which I take as I dip my head in thanks and step in. He follows behind, shutting and latching the door before sitting across from me. Settling down on the purple velvet cushion, I look out the glass window to the side as the carriage lurches forward and we make our way to the temple.
It’s blissfully silent, my mind once again working through possible experiments and ways I haven’t yet tested out magic, when Daje clears his throat. Without turning my head, my eyes dart over to where he is sitting across from me. His booted ankle rests on top of his knee, arms spread out wide over the back of the bench. His face is carefully unreadable, which is unusual for him considering he tends to wear his emotions on his sleeve.
“Something to say, Daje?” I ask with a smirk, returning my gaze to outside the carriage as we move down the bumpy stone pathway. He doesn’t immediately respond, the extended silence causing me to narrow my eyes.
“Did you know that there are… rumors about you?”
I slowly turn my head again to look at him, a single brow raised in question. “You will have to be more specific; I’m aware of many rumors about me.” Being a magicless mage—and a princess no less—means that my name is often either gossip fodder or in the center of drama about the state of our kingdom. Some feel uneasy that there is a spare heir to the throne that is, in their minds, defective. Though are they wrong?
“It has to do with your sleeping habits,” he says cautiously. His choice of words brings me out of my thoughts.
“I find it odd that people would make up rumors about how I’m falling or staying asleep,” I volley back, grinning wider when he rolls his eyes at me. Teasing Daje is something I enjoy immensely. I’m also hoping it eases some of this tension between us. We haven’t spoken since our fight, and I hate it when the silence goes on for too long.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” he sighs, running a hand over his short hair.
“I do,” I relent, forcing my face to relax, “but ignoring it has always been the best course of action. You know that no matter what I say or do, it just feeds into their need to make disparaging remarks about me.”
“But are those remarks true?” he asks quietly.
My lips pinch together as I survey him. His interest in my sleeping habits, as he called them, can’t simply be because he wants to know if Gosston is speaking truthfully. I know how Daje feels about me, and I know how he feels about sex. The older we’ve gotten, the more I’ve begrudgingly recognized that I have never seen Daje even appear to court other women. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t, by any means, and I never inquire about his sex life, but it’s part of the reason I am more discreet with my own. Sure, it’s probably not the best look for the royal family if their princess is fucking whoever she pleases openly, but even more so, I don’t want to hurt Daje’s feelings. Sex for me is purely a release and a way to feel powerful without magic. I don’t repeat sex partners because I don’t want any attachments forming when my attention is so firmly fixed on other things. Sex for Daje has meaning, especially if it were to happen with me.
“That is none of your business,” I finally answer.
He scoffs and shakes his head, turning to look away from me. I’ve steeled myself against the words and actions of others through many years of practice, but Daje has always had an easier time getting under my shields. It squeezes something inside me when we don’t happen to see eye to eye on things.
“I know you still view me as that little girl you first met, crying in a field because the other children called her broken,” I say, leaning forward slightly, “but I am not that little girl anymore. I don’t need you to protect me from things that aren’t actually threats.”
“You don’t believe tarnishing your reputation with rumors isn’t threatening?” he rumbles. “Bahira, if something happens to your brother, or if he simply decides he doesn’t want to be king, and you’re asked to take the throne, you’ll have to deal with these rumors then. The council—”
“Nothing is going to happen with Nox, and I don’t give a shit what the council thinks.”
“Do you care about what I think?” he asks, his voice low and woven with a hint of desperation that fills the space between us.
“Of course I do,” I acknowledge, “but, as I mentioned before, details about who I may or may not be fucking are not something you should expect to have access to.” Daje bristles, his hand gripping the back of the bench tighter. “And if you interfere, if you try to step in and act like my savior, all it shows everyone else is that I need someone to save me. It confirms what the council, the men who propose marriage, and the gossipers say about me—that I can’t do it on my own.” The words feel rushed, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to make Daje understand. “I need to prove to these people that I am just as capable, just as powerful as they are, even without my magic.”
He stares at me, his gaze relaying far too much about what he’s thinking as the carriage begins to slow down. When we’ve nearly come to a stop, he leans over the middle threshold, a determined look on his face. “You wouldn’t have to prove anything with me.”
We stop moving and sit in the uncomfortable, stilted silence for a few moments before a knock rasps on the outside of the door. I move before Daje does, unlatching it and taking the hand offered by the mage outside to step down. Straightening my spine, I roll my shoulders back, catching my mother’s eye as Daje steps out of the carriage and joins me by my side. Her eyes bounce between the two of us before a slow, playful smile tilts her lips. Gods help me. My mother believes that Daje will be the man I end up marrying. His glaring devotion to me is already a positive checkmark for him on her imaginary list of positive suitor qualities. What she—or anyone else except maybe my father—doesn’t understand is that, while Daje is a great man and friend, I can’t force myself to feel more for him. I don’t want to be in a relationship just for the sake of being in one.
I yearn to be with someone who challenges me. I want to feel like I’m standing with them at the edge of the cliffs by the ocean, peering over into the turbulent waters below, in those heart-pounding moments before we jump. And I don’t feel that with Daje. He is the one who would pull me away from the edge instead of jumping with me because he’s more worried about my safety than anything else. And it isn’t as if that is a bad thing—a part of me hates that his kindness and devotion isn’t enough for me.
I blow out a pained breath, shaking my head faintly as we make our way up the steps. Built from wood and stone, the temple is completely covered in a rainbow of petalum flowers, including the pointed roof. It’s a collage of colors that even in the faint twilight of the morning stand out vibrantly in the rich green of the forest. The flowers smell like honey and lemon, the scent of them coating the air for miles. Inside the temple, long trailing heart ivy hangs from the wooden beams running across the ceiling. The thin stems and heart-shaped leaves create a waterfall effect of differing lengths dangling over us as we walk. White stone lines the ground and inner walls, creeping vines of jasmine and wisteria growing along them. Carved wooden benches are set on either side of the center aisle we walk on, leading to three steps and then a dais where the Flame Ceremony is performed.
My mother and father move up the steps and stand near a small table that the Cauldron of Vires sits on. On the other side of the table—opposite of my parents—is a young girl. Her brown hair is tied elegantly in an updo, and an overly frilly pink dress drapes down her small frame and onto the floor. If her slight scowl is any indication, the dress wasn’t her choice.
I take my seat in the first row on the right, along with Daje and half of the council; the other half sit in the first row to the left with the girl’s parents. At a second glance, I see that the two women sitting there are not actually her parents. They wear the dark purple and black uniform of those who work at the orphanage. My gaze goes back to the girl, noticing how she stands with her spine straight and shoulders rolled back. It’s a defensive posture I recognize from myself, a way to appear more confident than you feel.
Low murmurs around me draw me out of my thoughts. Anyone in the kingdom is welcome to attend Flame Ceremonies, and within a few moments, the temple is packed with people. My father begins the ceremony by tapping his staff on the dais three times, silencing the crowd and garnering their attention.
“Welcome! Welcome everyone,” he starts, his voice booming and echoing off of the stone. “We come today to honor young Starla as she drops her blood into the Cauldron of Vires as many mages before her have done and as many after her will.”
My father steps forward, producing a small silver dagger from the sheath on his hip. The dagger has been passed down from ruler to ruler, its only purpose for use in situations where blood must be drawn. Set in an intricately crafted black stone hilt, an old spell is attached to the dagger, one which makes it painless for whoever is pricked by it. Flame Ceremonies are always performed by the current monarch and before my ancestors took over as rulers—a change that happened after The War Of Five Kingdoms—it had always been the queen of Void Magic. There was only ever one wielder of the powerful magic at a time, always female, and according to our ancient texts, when a descendant of that family line was deemed worthy, the magic would transfer over to them. The only indication that it was time for a transfer of magic was during the Flame Ceremony. When the female descendant dropped her blood into the Cauldron of Vires, the flame would turn blue.
The ancient sigil of the former line of queens is etched into the metal on the front of the cast iron cauldron that the little girl bravely holds her finger over. My father lightly cradles Starla’s hand in his, bringing his other hand holding the dagger up and to her finger tip. With a wink, he pricks her finger and turns her hand over the cauldron. Blood slowly wells, and the temple grows quiet in anticipation for that single bead to show what magic the little girl has.
I watch as the fat droplet finally lets go and plummets into the cauldron. A second goes by, then three. My heart beats frantically in my chest as I lean forward from the bench, seeing Daje’s head turn to me out of the corner of my eye. Low murmurs begin to resonate in the temple. Then, directly over the cauldron, a small flame sparks.