Chapter 5
There is no body to bury, no remnant of my brother to mourn.
Instead, tonight we will condemn his soul to the high heavens, where he will join our ancestors among the stars.
It’s a tradition among members of the royal family, and it’s one I’ve never assumed stewardship of.
I’d hate to be forced to live up there, where hundreds of dead kings patronize the world below until their souls expire.
I’d much rather join my mother in one of the seven hells, where she’s been condemned.
Xavelor’s funeral will be discreet, host to a select few nobles and servants.
News of his death still hasn’t left the castle.
In this I’m certain my father has made the best decision.
Losing the crown prince during a time of war would spark more than a little commotion, given the existence of a second prince is still unknown to the public.
My legs shift over the duvet, feet flattening against the floor.
Bernadette kneels at the foot of my bed, staring blankly at the walls adorned with swirling painted shapes.
I think for a moment she might be entranced by the designs, but then she finally faces me, her eyes sad and droopy and red.
It’s already been a week, and she’s still mourning the loss of my brother’s life.
Few can accept the greedy hands of death as easily as I have.
Not many experience the heartbreaking loss of a parent at a young age.
That sort of trauma numbs you to things, even the deaths of others.
Including magnificent warrior princes and half siblings you hardly know.
I swallow the bitterness coating my tongue.
The maid wrings her skirts and rocks silently on her knees as tears shine on her cheeks. My chest shoots with a familiar pain. I don’t like seeing her in such a state, completely ruined with thoughts of my brother.
I much prefer her soft laughter, the kind that only appeared when Xavelor and I were boys. She was our caretaker then, raising us as if we were her own. This loss, to her, is akin to losing her own child.
“Bear,” I coo. She twitches, and a flicker of light shines in her eyes, but it is quickly replaced with a frightening emptiness.
“Oh, Rami.” Her weak voice breaks from emotional strain. For a moment, the sadness in her dark eyes deepens them a shade, almost perfectly matching the color of her bleak funeral dress.
We embrace. It’s warm and emotional and tight, but brief. Any longer, and I’d accidentally loose my frustration about my brother’s inconvenient death on Bernadette. Thinking about him for too long will only perpetuate my confusion and anger, neither of which I’d like to share. At least not now.
Bernadette presses her small, knobby hands against my black tunic. Her gray lips flatten into a line and then shiver as her chin trembles. I interrupt her before she has the chance to speak.
“I know how much you loved him.” I smile softly at her, and her jaw sets.
Her hands are still flat against my chest as her concerned eyes dodge back and forth between mine.
If she’s searching for a remnant of Xavelor, she won’t find it.
She knows better than anyone how different we are from each other, how we never spent more than a moment together after he’d left for his first war when he was thirteen.
Bernadette has always been like a mother to us.
“But he is gone now. There’s nothing we can do. ”
Her mouth clamps shut, but her chin continues to twitch. She stands and steadies herself against the bedpost before sucking in a wheezy breath.
“We best be on our way,” she says quietly. I nod and follow her into the hall.
The last time I stood in the castle’s east tower was when my mother’s body was showered with ceremonial lavender. The rain had already poured for days on her pale body, warping her skin from the exposure to the cold and wet.
My father, wearing his usual cape and gown, had glowered down at her corpse mere moments before wordlessly ordering the mages to burn the body with blue mage fire. He had no words for the woman who birthed me. No sympathy. No love.
The tower appears not to have changed much, maintaining its cracked stone flooring and eroding turret wall lined with dark metal.
At the center is a fresh, blood-red magic circle with arcane letters and enchantments winding throughout its design: the official Magic Circle of Alignment , used explicitly for the immortalization of kings.
Or would-be kings, in this case. It’s rarely used, but easily recognizable.
I have always been keen on studying the magic my father vehemently despises.
Mages are still a mystery, even though I’ve lived my life under their constant surveillance.
There’s an ancient-ness about magic that fascinates me, but the resources regarding its origins are limited, even for those who possess libraries of books.
I tilt my head away from the sharp lines glowing at the center of the circle so I can drink in the night sky.
The stars are brilliant, blinking throughout the dark purple infinity like they all want to be seen and remembered in this very moment.
Kings of past centuries, all straining to glow brighter than their forefathers and great-grandchildren.
Twinkling in and out of the night, greedy for attention. I don’t envy their desperate pleas.
My gaze returns to the darkened tower. Others have gathered.
Not only members of the castle, but also the mages who are bandaged around the face and hands and covered head to toe in tattered velvet cloaks.
I try to disconnect the similarities between our appearances, and it isn’t difficult.
My robes are elegant and my cloth wrap clean, and I am not without muscle or color.
I wonder if the peasants living in Bellmane were able to tell the difference.
The mages’ cloaks are dark and hooded, and the bandages on their faces and hands hide scars inflicted by magic. Despite their rugged appearances, their eyes glow almost as brilliantly as the stars, filled with beautiful blue energy.
As the mages pass, none spare me a glance.
King Azriel follows behind them, dressed in black funeral robes.
Even though his clothing is the same as mine, he is still obviously the king.
He has burly shoulders, rough and dark facial hair, and stern wrinkles in all the right places.
Xavelor had inherited the promise of these regal traits, while I’d mostly taken after my feeble mother.
I push away the thought that something this trivial and uncontrollable could’ve been the reason why I’d been confined to the castle these long nineteen years, and I switch my focus to the mages.
They stand at regular intervals around the magically charged circle.
We onlookers know to move well against the tower’s walls to leave room for the ritual.
My stomach tightens as their cloaks ripple and snap in the windless night.
Iridescent tentacles of blue magic snake from their outstretched arms and pour silently into the circle’s center.
Harsh vowels hiss from the mages’ lips as each raises all arms in front of them. A bright red sphere of energy takes shape, pulsing midair above the circle’s center.
My heart crashes against my ribs as terror and desire ground me. The ball of red feels warm, familiar. I blink and the ball pulses with a flash. The chants become a blend of hisses and clicks and growls, forming words in an ancient language.
Though Xavelor’s body is lost to us, the mages seem to have successfully summoned his soul. The spinning mass of flaming red is all we have left of him.
For the first time since his death, sadness tears through me.
My shoulders shudder under an invisible weight as his soul burns.
I feel it in my chest, as though that sphere at the center of the enchanted circle is reaching into me, trying to wrench my own soul out.
But it isn’t my time , I want to say. I’ll prove myself worthy of the title you threw away.
The pressure in my chest releases as the mages throw their arms wide, thrusting the orb into the sky. I’m unsure of where it lands, where his legacy will settle among the millions of stars, because I’ve stopped watching.
My focus turns to a wobbly soldier, who collapses to his knees outside the magic circle. He places an iron helmet on the ground, beats his chest once with a hand, then stares into the sky. Tears glisten in his eyes.
He turns away when he catches me watching.
The ceremony ends quickly after the king mutters praises about his son’s life. The rest of us remain silent. Some sob. Others blankly stare at the frozen mages.
On my father’s command, all of us retire for the night.
I wake to the sound of screeching metal and a throbbing headache. At first, I imagine my forgotten dreams are still fading into reality, and then I see him .
The soldier sits at the edge of my bed, sliding a blade along a smooth whetstone in practiced strokes and not bothering to acknowledge my awakening. His short, light-colored hair is pearly in the morning glow, and he wears a standard slate-colored soldier’s tunic.
I’m not sure whether to be mortified or grateful. He’s either a potential assailant perfecting his blade as he sits next to his victim, or he’s in the wrong room. Neither would be good.
My thoughts fizz and crack at the hilarity of that sentiment.
I blink at him, waiting for him to realize I’m awake as I cautiously reach under my pillow for the small dagger I’d smuggled from the armory.
I’m ill-practiced at stealth, but the intruder seems to be too focused on his craft to notice.
My hand finds the short hilt, prepared if he makes any sudden movements.
One more scrape on the stone, then he sighs.
His head flops over his shoulder as he analyzes me with narrow brown eyes. “Is this how you treat an old friend?”