Chapter Nine
I whip around, only to find a…creature, if it can be called that, dragging the screaming unfortunate soul by the neck, with another joining them from behind.
All the while the soul—a smallish man with crumpled features—pleads forgiveness.
“Please, I only wished to make it to the Sovereign for an appeal. I belong with the Exalted! Or the Dignified, at the very least!”
My mind whirls. The Sovereign? Exalted?
“Shadows are not permitted in the palace until morning, before the appeals. You know this.”
It’s almost like these beings are guards, or something like it.
Guardians, perhaps? They are attired in long robes, each hand clutching a reaper’s axe.
And their skin is…translucent. Ghostly in appearance, their features hard to make out.
Blurred, in a sense. Perhaps this is my way to Moranya—to allow myself to get caught. To get dragged before her…
“Wasn’t your appeal denied?” asks the other being.
“It was indeed,” says the first being.
“But I must try again! You don’t understand,” begs the soul. “I don’t deserve to be a Shadow. My ruling was unjust, and if the Sovereign would only allow me another chance to explain, I am certain he would change his mind…”
Wait. He?
I then recall what Illian said. I’d hedge she came to collect him the moment you left. Probably made him an offer of some kind, which would explain why he’s lazing about like he’s king of the underworld—ruling in her stead.
“Be grateful Her Majesty has handed the daily duties of the realm over to the Sovereign, for surely she would have expelled you to the Sands already for such insolence! Shadow filth. Even the chance to appeal against your initial judgment is a mercy.”
Illian was right. If the rule of the realm had been handed to Anton, it means I would be dragged before him if caught. And he would recognize me—not as Vasalie, but as the girl from Razam they used to tempt him.
He would cast me from Morta’s Lair. Or perhaps into the Sands, whatever that is.
I have to stay hidden—at least until I find Moranya. Slowly, I back away, into the shadows.
The soul only grows rowdier, fitful sobs spilling from his lips. He thrashes against the strange beings who are now dragging him down the street. Past him, a final gate gapes open, offering a glimpse of that sprawling palace.
Other souls meander through the gates without a problem; I wonder how the beings know which ones are trespassing. I wonder if they can detect the whereabouts of souls somehow. I pray they cannot sense me, mortal as I am.
There are two more beings guarding the gate itself.
Perhaps I can channel my spirit. Only, when I try, I appear exactly the same. It’s as if this place brings souls into a corporeal form.
Yet I have no choice but to risk getting through.
Holding my breath, I step from the shadows and pass through the final gate. When the guard-like beings do not so much as blink, relief slips from my lungs in a breath.
And once again, the atmosphere changes.
That same lone thread of melody permeates the air, clearer and more harmonious now, and yet the streets, paved in amethyst, are much less crowded.
The buildings have tapered off, and instead estates sprawl between manicured trees and gardens, each picturesque with grand fountains, pools, and bathhouses.
The music sounds loudest through a walkway enclosed by trees flowering with bulbs that glow even in the shadows.
I follow the path as it curves, smooth stones rolled out like a carpet until it opens before the palace entrance.
Even from here, I can see the sheer number of figures drifting within.
The sight of the steps to the entrance leaves me feeling dizzy, however, and it takes me the better part of an hour to reach the top. There must be at least a hundred, and with the density of the air, the rush of mountain wind, fatigue settles over me.
At the top, I perch on a large stone partially hidden between a copse of trees just off the main path and allow myself a moment to rest.
My heart feels like a clenched fist.
Here I can see just how large the palace is. It, too, is stacked into tiers—verandas, balconies, blooming with partygoers, lapis stone glowing blue in the ever-present dusk.
And unlike the Palace of Anell with its grand mosaics, there’s no glass or patterned tiles here that I can see. Only open arches, wisps of curtains fluttering like stretches of ribbons against a gentle breeze.
Giggles burst from the trio of women passing by, headed toward the palace.
Their outfits are much more revealing than the ones in the plaza, crafted from a material that looks like silk, but softer.
Lighter, even, if that’s possible. And it’s shredded or cut in different places to reveal a slip of thigh, a swell of hip, the deep, full curve of a lower back, or a mound of bosom.
Strands of jewels and flowers are woven into their gathered, knee-length locks, and spirals of glistening cords wrap around their bare arms and even their ankles.
They must be the Exalted, considering they’ve been permitted on these grounds.
As I rest, I see more just like them. There are masculine and androgynous figures attired in the same way. All of them are breathtakingly beautiful—free of scars, of age, of weathered skin or acne, or the effects of mortal labor. And as before, they have a shine to them, like the sheen of a pearl.
I glance at my own imperfect flesh. There’s redness still, and patches of uneven skin and scars.
More so, none of them look ill or pained in any way.
I’m going to have to find a way to blend in. But so far, it seems my most obvious tells are the lack of luster on my skin, and my very drab, very mortal woolen dress.
What was I known for, though, if not my artistry?
On the other side of the landing is a sequestered courtyard. Once the souls have moved along, I dip between the closest pair of hedgerows rounding a glistening fountain. Unlike a mortal fountain, however, this one is flush with glowing flora that soaks up the trickle of water.
After ensuring I’m alone, I unbutton the back of my dress and shimmy out of it.
Blessedly, the long, silken slip underneath is loose enough for me to knot strategically at my waist and hips, and I tuck the straps underneath my arms after tying them together to give a strapless effect.
But on its own, the garment is too thin and plain, even if I’ve altered its silhouette to better fit in with those around me.
Biting my lip, I pluck a fuchsia flower from a cluster nearby.
It is so rich in color that when I dab it onto my slip, it acts as a dye, leaving a soft pink imprint.
I repeat the motion, selecting different flowers until I have a pattern that fans upward from the narrowest part of my waist to my bust, then down again—an ombre effect that fades as it descends.
It’s not my most impressive work, but hopefully it will serve to blur me into the background.
For a final touch, I select one of the glowing bulbs from a cypress tree, testing it against my wrist. It leaves an oily, slightly lustrous sheen along my skin.
A small amount goes a long way, too, and so I dab just enough into my palms, then rub it across my arms, my calves, my face and neck.
It will do—at least for now.
I continue along the final ascent, my breath misting in quick pants, my heart already setting a far-too-rapid pace. A new song, seductive and saccharine, rises.
I climb the final few dark, glistening steps and tread into the colonnade. Souls around me flock past the entrance and down another walkway that empties into to a large, open expanse, domed by effulgent stone.
I follow.
Here fat garlands of flowers and fluid pink silk glimmer in the breeze between even grander columns.
The music is louder, as rambunctious as it is harmonious.
Lights bob in the surrounding promenades: pale blue with a hint of citrine in the center.
Scores of souls laze about on lounges or dally in groups—socializing, sloshing luminescent liquid in their glasses.
It seems festivity is still a pastime here if the trays full of plump fruits, luscious tarts, and drinks are any indication.
Furthermore, there’s a pomp and ceremony to this place, an air of importance.
It’s not very different from the Gathering—and again, I wonder if I was correct in my assessment.
That these…Exalted, as they called them, are the souls Moranya deemed righteous and deserving of a lifestyle such as this.
By the chattering, the spates of laughter, I swear half of them are downright inebriated.
At least I’ve garnered little attention so far.
I have no idea where Moranya might be; the scale of this place is overwhelming. Perhaps she doesn’t attend the festivities, despite them being in her palace. Even so, I continue my search.
Yet I can’t help but scan for pale blond curls and a small frame, curvy in nature. I listen for Emilia’s voice—that light, joyful tenor I hope she still has. Surely she would help me if I found her.
Still using the shadows as a cloak, I weave between great, flowering plants and velvet chaises, between groups of souls under yet another dome, but to no avail. There is no sign of Anton, either. I wonder if he’s with Moranya, even now.
Steeling myself, I approach a nearby soul.
She’s tall and lithe, wearing nothing but flowers made of silk—two arranged over her breasts, the rest gathered at her hips and into a short skirt.
Lavender curls scallop past her shoulders.
I feel irrevocably small and impish next to her, but I gather my courage and ask, “Pardon, but could you tell me where I might find Moranya?”
I draw short when the woman’s lashes flutter down at me, dazedly. Then she says, “Ah, you must be new, yes?”
“I…” I hesitate, unsure how to answer.