The Mortal Trials (The Mortal Prize Trilogy #1)

1

Isit at the kitchen table, strangling my cup like it’s Cillian’s neck.

The gods have already taken my mother and sister. I’ll be damned if they take my brother, too. Even if he’s to blame for the trouble he’s in.

Ripples spread over the surface of my tea in time with my bouncing knee. I put my sole on the tile and try to focus on something else, anything else.

Soft sunlight sings into the room, joining the melodies of the bright quetzals that flit from sturdier stems to the windowsill in hopes of an easy meal.

The birds are never comfortable or settled. Always moving. Tilting their heads. Stretching their wings. Ready to fly. Abuela swears they speak to each other. I wonder what they say about what’s left of us. Of the crumbs we’ve become.

Down the hall, Cillian drags himself out of bed. His tired footsteps pad toward the kitchen.

Our grandmother hums to herself as she pushes a steaming, worn-thin rag across the counters.

A vibrant green scarf holds her long, gray curls back from her face.

Faint water spots are drying on her orange apron.

She’s like the blooms in her garden, full of color and life despite the blistering desert around her.

Abuela smiles at my brother as he shuffles into the kitchen muttering a sleepy good morning to us both.

She returns the greeting.

I do not.

Her eyes sharpen and cut to me. The woman misses nothing.

Abuela wrings the rag into the bucket. A graying brow rises as she glances between us.

I stare into my cup, focusing on the warmth under my fingertips and the amber tea that tastes like home.

I didn’t realize how much of our grandmother’s love – woven into every small detail of our lives and home – I’d taken for granted until I was too far away to feel its warmth.

Maybe that was the silver lining of leaving, that I remembered and tucked those happy, mundane moments into my heart for safekeeping.

“Drink all of it. Even the petals,” she reminds me, pointing to my teacup.

I take another sip and feel a thin petal slip down the back of my throat.

Cillian kisses Abuela’s temple before moving past her to fill a plate with slivers of papaya, slices of boiled egg, and the last crust of bread we have, tearing a molded piece from its edge and tossing it onto the sill. A bright quetzal swoops in to gather his treat, mold and all.

The bird leaves a short jade feather behind.

Some luck.

Abuela coos at the bird and collects the offering as Cillian takes a pinch of salt and sifts it over his eggs and bread.

My brother’s dark, wavy hair is a mess. Bruised crescents hang beneath his eyes. He tossed and turned all night. The constant straining and groaning of his cot betrayed how little he slept.

Our grandmother abandons her cleaning, removes her apron, and settles in her usual chair to my left. She lifts the dented copper kettle and fills her cup to the brim. Steam slithers between us. She watches me with furrowed brows, silently asking if I’m okay, a question I’m sick of answering.

The answer I always give is yes. The truth is that I’m not and never will be.

“Have you received a new conscription list from Morrigan, mija?” Abuela asks conversationally. She’s valiantly trying to distract me from what plagues me and failing miserably, because the plaguing subject flops into the chair across the table.

I glance away, attempting to remain civil. For now.

Until Abuela goes outside to water her flowers, at least.

I clear my throat. “Not yet.”

The seat to my right remains empty. Its very presence makes our sister’s absence louder.

I imagine carrying the worn, yellow-painted wood chair outside, raising it over my head, and smashing it into splinters. We can always use them for the stove. But I could no sooner throw Carina’s chair, even broken, into the flames than I could myself.

All we have of her now are the things she left behind.

Her bedroom has become a mausoleum filled with memories and moments.

Like the quilt Abuela made from scraps of her clothing, and the horrible drawings she displayed of the places in Olympus she loved most. There are her scribbled notes and the pens she wrote them with, as well as the cherished, secret things she kept in her top drawer.

My brother’s stare flicks to her chair for only a second before he turns his attention back to his breakfast. He never lets himself remember her for long. He says I dwell on her enough for us all.

Abuela pours his tea as he takes a bite of egg.

He croaks a thanks, then takes the last sugar cube and drops it into the steaming cup with a plunk.

My patience with him frays.

His spoon hits the sides of his cup as he stirs.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

I seethe. When did he become such a skilled liar? How can he act like he’s not about to ruin his life? What about his apprenticeship? All the hours he’s dedicated to it? And now he’s just going to throw it all away?

He sees me watching him. Notices the tight grip on my cup.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks with a scowl.

What’s wrong with me?

The thread tempering my anger snaps. I’ll tell him what’s wrong with me. Better yet, I’ll show him.

I scoot my chair back and brace a hand against the table to stand, my metal knee joint grating.

Abuela stiffens and says my name in a tone that, once again, asks if I’m alright.

No.

I’m not!

“I saved some oil for you. I can get it,” she tells me, twisting in her seat, desperately glancing toward the counter. But this isn’t about oil. Or my pitiful prosthesis.

It’s not about me. Or Carina. Or her ever-present absence.

It’s about Cillian and the trouble he’s gotten himself into, and whether I’ll be able to pull him out of the mire. This time, it’s not a trio of troublemaking boys I’ll be extricating him from, but the hands of the gods themselves.

I put my hand on her shoulder as I limp around the table and start down the hall. My joint screeches with every other step, drowning the trilling birdsong.

I want my brother to look me in the eye and tell me where he’s going and why before he leaves and never comes back.

I fight the ache in my chest and the urge to scream as I veer into his bedroom and grab the three sets of silver pleated robes I found last night – hidden beneath a gods damned mirror, of all things.

As I turn to leave his room, my knee’s hinge threatens to lock, thirsty for the thicker grease I can’t afford. Abuela’s watery cooking oil only helps so much. I push forward, metal grating on metal, and limp back through the arched doorway.

The second Cillian sees what I’m carrying, he mutters a curse and slumps back into his seat.

Abuela swats him for his language before realizing what I’m holding. “Cillian,” she breathes, her eyes wide. “No.”

He cranes his head to the ceiling.

The dam of betrayal, fear, and anger breaks inside me. “You want to be like her? Her footsteps aren’t worth walking in!”

Hurt caves his chest and shoulders before his eyes flick to mine, burning with an emotion so intense, I can’t properly name it.

I start across the room, knee joint grating as I round the counter and head straight for the fireplace.

Chair legs rake against the tile. Talons scoring stone. “No!” he barks. In two strides, Cillian reaches me and wrenches the garments away. “Do you have any idea what will happen to us if these are damaged?” he hisses, clutching the delicate, shimmering robes against his stomach.

“How could you?” I ask, my voice cracking. Was he too young to remember how it felt to watch the woman who used to say we were her world rescind those words?

None of the three of us reached our mother’s waist the day she shucked off everything precious our father had given her before he died.

She slid the thin bangles from her wrists, the rings from her fingers, and the dangling gold bars from her ears.

One piece at a time, she sat them on the wooden table just inside the open front door.

Weak sunlight spilled over the burnished tile under our little feet as she walked out of our home and lives, leaving us behind like we were another thing from which she had to free herself.

Cillian had cried out for her.

She didn’t pause or even look back. She just kept walking.

I started after her, determined to stop her.

It was Carina who stopped us. She crouched and pulled us both in for a hug. She told us to let our mother go and not waste our tears on someone who didn’t deserve them.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Cillian shouts.

Abuela flinches, wringing her hands as she starts around the counter. My hand raises and her feet take root again. “I will look at you any way I please, Cillian.” My vision blurs.

He curses. “Gods, Cal. I don’t want to be an acolyte. I’m mending these for one!”

Since when does he even know one well enough to forge such a bargain?

My eyes narrow. I swear to all the gods that if the robes belong to our mother, if he somehow found her or she wormed her way to him, hoping to make amends after all these years…

“It’s not her, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t help her for all the coin in the world!” he harshly snaps. “Which is why I’m caring for these garments – for coin. So stop looking at me like I’ve betrayed you.”

Dread settles into my belly.

Acolytes don’t pay others to mend their clothes. They do their own mending. And they certainly don’t help those in need, though they easily could. They think every sliver of copper, silver, and gold belongs only to their god. So why would one offer to pay my brother?

To sink their claws into him, that’s why.

His shoulders sink and he sighs, sensing my distrust. “She’s a new devotee. Her home burned and her family died in the fire. She had no place else to go, but she hasn’t taken the pledge yet. She can still leave.”

I tilt my head and give him a flat look.

He can’t actually believe that.

Acolytes never let anyone slight the deity they serve. They’ll stab this girl in the back the moment she turns to walk away. And if she has no family or friends, only soft-hearted Cillian will even notice she’s gone.

“Three of her fingers are broken. I saw her struggling to thread a needle while I was delivering a statue to the temple. I threaded it for her, but she couldn’t work the needle and hold the cloth. She asked if I would help in exchange for the coins she’s rationed.”

I open my mouth to tell him how stupid even speaking with her was when he puts a hand up.

“I know what you’re thinking, and that you don’t approve. But I don’t see how helping someone who needs it and earning a little extra coin is a bad thing. I’m saving as much as I can, but my wage isn’t enough.”

“Enough for what? What do you need?” I ask, flinging my hands out, hoping I can find a way to provide it so he can return the robes and tell the devotee to toss the coin she would’ve given my brother to a god who won’t even notice it fall.

Or better yet, keep it and try to escape before anyone realizes she’s considering leaving.

He grips the garments tighter to his chest.

My commission provides what we need.

I glance at the plate of molded crumbs.

Mostly.

“You need a new leg,” he answers, his voice thick as he gestures to my prosthesis.

My head ticks back and my lashes flutter. “What?”

He sighs and points toward the rusty joint. “It’s falling apart.”

“I’m on the craftsman’s list.”

“And how long will you be on it?” he challenges.

I throw a hand in the air. “That’s not up to me.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to do something proactive instead of waiting for a turn that may never come, while that prosthesis rusts in two!”

Firstly, I would still have to wait, even if we had the coin for a new one. Secondly, it’s my leg and my problem. Not my baby brother’s. He should be focused on learning his craft, not worrying about this.

I raise my chin. “It’ll be fine. Abuela saved some oil. I just need to –”

“The oil be damned.” He growls in frustration. “If that thing lasts the month, you’ll be lucky and you know it.” His shoulders sink and I feel the same exhaustion settle heavily in my bones.

He was never going to leave. I accused him of betrayal when he was merely worried and trying to help.

I blow out a tense breath and vow to apologize for that miscalculation later.

For now? No amount of coin is worth the risk he’s taking, regardless of the good intentions behind it. “Please return the robes to the girl. I’ll place a request to get in with the craftsman sooner.”

If the sad thing breaks, he’ll be forced to make me more of a priority. Not that waiting until it does is ideal, because then I’ll have to wait for one to be made to fit me and be more immobile in the meantime.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Why haven’t you gone directly to Morrigan about it?”

It’s a valid question. Because at one point, the goddess favored me.

Why haven’t I approached Morrigan when she could easily influence the craftsman to move me up the list?

Because it’s not that simple. And because I’m afraid. I haven’t seen her since she carried me off the battlefield. I’m terrified the goddess will take one look at me and decide I’m too broken to continue in her ranks.

Instead, I say, “Morrigan doesn’t deal with trivial matters, and she’d consider this one.”

Cillian raises his brows. “She’ll help you. She—”

“Or she could end my commission, Cillian!” I shout. I take a shuddering breath. “If that happens, a new leg will be the least of our worries.”

Because not only would I be removed from the craftsman’s list, since we wouldn’t be able to pay him, but we would likely starve.

Cillian is an Olympian stone mason’s apprentice. He’s paid a paltry fraction of what he’ll one day earn despite his hard labor, simply because he’s still learning the craft. His salary doesn’t cover a quarter of what we spend each week, and mine only provides what we can’t live without.

If I lose my commission, I will be free to pursue work elsewhere, but I don’t know a single soul in all the realms who would risk hiring the infamous Callalie Ryan.