9. Raithe
Raithe
Eleven years ago, the queen regent destroyed the mile-long bridge that connected the palace skyland to the royal city. Antares was made of dozens of collective floating lands, tiered and stacked, with hundreds of thousands of inhabitants.
The safest way for the princess to get there was through an arch that existed deep below the palace skyland, far into the bedrock, and beyond the dungeons.
In the absence of a queen, it was also the secret location of the royal talisman.
The arch led to a nobles-only thermae—a bathhouse—down the road from the Royal Temple.
Only our court knew of this arch’s location.
The thermae had been cleared and secured upon our arrival. Felaf and I guided Gregorios and Cyrene out of the thermae and onto the streets of the Baron’s District. We discreetly joined the parade led by Alekko, Vesperah, Maryn, and the royal guard, marching under an unforgiving sun.
The district belonged to the most wealthy Scorpions, where Baron Ionis Condor and his wife resided.
He’d paid the queen regent a handsome sum for additional royal protection over the years as droughts and subsequent disorder overtook the skylands.
With no queen to ensure rainstorms sufficiently refilled the water reservoirs, chaos ran the streets amok.
Destitute civilians became violent, seeking basic necessities found abundant in this district.
It had made sense to bolster protection here at first, given the dense population and its rich history. But more importantly, it was home to the Royal Academy and Royal Temple—both erected during the first Age.
Soon, the other barons across the queendom followed suit, paying the queen regent more coin in exchange for martial protection to secure their cities and resources from the common people.
I witnessed the true effects of such governance.
Guards arresting a new mother who’d snuck into the district to milk a cow to give her newborn the nourishment her body could not provide.
Guards chopping off the fingers of a dehydrated boy who’d stolen a bucket of water to give to his dying sister.
Guards killing a starving man for impersonating a noble at court in an attempt to persuade the queen regent to reconsider her policies. That was the last time Maryn had held court to hear the grievances of the people.
Being an apostate was one thing—treasonous, unforgivable.
But breaking a law to survive, to do what was right, or to take what should have been given…
I didn’t believe such actions were worthy of cruel punishments.
From the red rimming Alekko’s eyes when he ordered each sentencing, Alekko didn’t either.
Only on the sacred day of a ceremonial trial were the gates opened to this district to allow everyone to bear witness to the spectacle and “spread joy to the people,” as Maryn loved to say. Those were words, weightless and inconsequential compared to the change this queendom desperately needed.
As we paraded toward the temple, all my senses were on high alert, listening for anything nefarious. Days like today were the perfect opportunity to strike. But the roar of thousands around us was somber, sullen, and desolate.
Gaunt women and men lined the streets in black fabrics that hung from their bony bodies.
Their faces were concealed with scarves and other scraps to protect their lungs from the desert-like sands.
Emaciated children stood with tattered black Scorpion flags dangling from their grips. Bleak despair haunted their eyes.
When I was on my own for a time after escaping my parents, I had once been one of those children. I was on the other side now of such poverty, but for all my physical strength, I held no power to help them.
“On your left,” Felaf murmured.
A haggard woman in black rags broached the parade. I tensed despite not believing her to be a real threat. Red geranium petals flew from her bony hands. “She’s fine.”
Some still had hope, it seemed, but many had lost faith in Scorpio—making them the ultimate prey for lurking apostates. It was only a matter of time before the people banded together—apostai or not—if things continued this way.
Before long, we arrived safely inside the temple, and the ceremony commenced at once. Gregorios and Maryn instructed the audience to hush before Cyrene strode her way up the aisle. Felaf and I rigidly trailed several steps behind.
Inside the ancient structure, utter silence permeated the saged air. Black flags, banners, and beeswax candles decorated the interior, all matching the onyx floors. The reflection of the flickering sconces glittered against the colossal stone columns. These walls bore witness to so much history.
All twelve Scorpion barons and their families were in attendance, in addition to dozens of renowned acolytes, scholars and courtiers from across the queendom—each dressed in Scorpio’s sacred color.
The front row of seats, specially reserved for the eleven other royals of Gaianos, remained glaringly empty. Not a single royal deigned to show—and therefore, no one from their courts.
Their absence spoke volumes and served as a continued insult to Scorpio.
It had been several years since any royal made an appearance.
To all other royals, the disrespect would have been enough to start a trade war at least. Not that we had much to offer for trade these days.
The queens of Cancer and Pisces had sent us water shipments.
Most were distributed to areas that had depleted their underground aquifers, but it wasn’t sustainable.
Not when the skylands themselves were dying.
Cyrene’s parents, brother, and cousin stood off to the side of the temple’s ritual basin, awaiting their imminent death.
The depth of the basin was impossible to determine, serving as a magical conduit to Scorpio’s divine energy.
If Cyrene succeeded, she would wield her newfound power and drown each of them in the dark pool beneath the altar of Scorpio.
If Cyrene failed, her family would still be forced to follow her into the depths of that basin.
Any who descended into the ancient water would perish, save for a queen who could harness hudro to save herself. A guardian potentially could, with abilities at least, but no such thing had ever been attempted.
To interfere was a violation of the Treaty.
Cyrene’s heartbeats pounded in my own ears, drowning the crowd outside. We neared the base of the altar—an ornate, onyx statue of a faceless woman-turned-scorpion that stretched as high as the domed ceiling.
Felaf and I sank to our knees with our heads slightly bowed as Cyrene approached Maryn, whose arms were extended for Cyrene’s garments.
Several drawn-out seconds passed before Cyrene disrobed.
It was an important yet vulnerable part of the ceremony to bare her glyphed body for all to see.
There was no gawking or leering during such a sacred ritual.
Maryn held a black pillow in her hands. A golden torque necklace with the royal topaz rested at its center. Felaf, Gregorios, Cyrene and I had retrieved it from beneath the palace before using the arch.
Gregorios took the necklace and clasped it around Cyrene’s neck. He proceeded to murmur the same words all seers before him had spoken to their queens for thousands of years.
“Surrender to the burden of our element. Upon resurfacing, your queendom will be waiting for you. Your guardians will protect you. Your seer will guide you. Give credence to Scorpio.”
“Give credence to Scorpio,” Cyrene croaked. She glanced at her family, shoulders shaking. Tears of pride welled in their eyes, each of them willing to make the sacrifice expected of them.
Cyrene stepped into the basin. Her legs waded further as the inky liquid rose higher and higher until it swallowed her whole.
The room inhaled a collective breath.
An acolyte began the ringing of the bell. Its slow, haunting chime rang throughout the dark temple. He would ring the bell eleven more times, every ten seconds. If Cyrene did not emerge after the twelfth bell toll, then it was over.
Another bell rang. And still, no sign of life from beneath the water. It was early morning, and yet the dim warmth made it appear nearly midnight.
Over a minute had passed. The final ringing of the bell was approaching. Without her powers, she couldn’t hold her breath much longer. All was calm and eerily silent from the surface, but beneath, Cyrene’s heart hammered frantically.
And then I heard it. From the way Felaf tensed beside me, I knew she did too.
The desperate, short inhales as the air in Cyrene’s lungs ran out. Her ragged chokes filling with water. The strained gurgles as her body convulsed. Her suffering was quick but agonizing to listen to.
Hector had once warned me how gruesome it would be to hear what everyone else in the room could not. I had not thought to warn Felaf, having forgotten this was her first ceremonial trial. “Grind your teeth,” I suggested. “It helps.”
The twelfth and final bell tolled, and Cyrene did not reappear. All was quiet both above and below the basin. In her place, the talisman floated to the surface. Whatever elemental magic existed in that ancient water had loosened the torque from Cyrene’s neck.
The acolyte set down the bell as another appeared with an extended hook to retrieve the necklace. They lifted it from the water and brought it to Gregorios’s reaching hands. Once secured, he placed it back on the black pillowcase.
Maryn’s eyes lingered a beat longer than necessary on the topaz. As queen regent, she was not a Chosen. And a talisman directly in the hands of anyone but a Chosen was treason.
She looked to Felaf and me for confirmation. With Cyrene’s heartbeat no longer audible to our ears, we shook our heads once in unison. Maryn whispered to Gregorios, confirming Cyrene’s death.