Chapter Nine #2
“Never mind; I can see that you are. You won’t find Moranya here. You likely won’t see her again, for that matter. If you have an appeal, you will have to take it to the Sovereign these days.”
Dejection sits hot in my belly, fatigue spinning my vision. “Does she not…live in the palace?”
The woman shrugs her bare shoulder. “The Court of the Exalted handles the rulings of the realm. Or they did until everything was handed over to His Gloriousness, of course.”
His Gloriousness.
I know exactly who that is.
Is that the title he’s chosen for himself? What type of life is he living here? No; it doesn’t matter. He would sooner expel me than help me.
“The…Court of the Exalted. What are they?” I attempt. Perhaps I can appeal to them to find Moranya.
“Did your guide not tell you anything when you arrived? Fates, they are useless now.” She sighs.
“The Court of the Exalted ensures that everyone follows the rules—that no one trespasses into echelons they do not belong to, and so forth. Depending on the transgression, they determine punishment, whether it be sentencing to the Sands or a simple demotion into a lower echelon. Of course, His Gloriousness has taken that all over now that Moranya has deemed him her Sovereign. He is the only one who can permit a soul into a higher tier, too. That’s why he created the appeals.
If someone feels they were judged unfairly by Moranya herself, they can now appeal to him to change echelons.
You are fortunate to be deemed an Exalted, though, so allow me to be the first to welcome you.
I’m Dahlia. Second-generation Queen of Bristal.
I died on my twenty-third birthday two days after my coronation. I am pleased to welcome you here.”
Bristal—a southern nation that no longer exists. It was dissolved at least three centuries ago. Does everyone here lead with who they were in life? Does that determine their status? It feels wrong, if so.
Then Dahlia startles me, grabbing my hand and pressing her full lips to my knuckles. I don’t know what I expected, but her physicality isn’t it. She’s…solid, just like me. Fully corporeal, just like I am. The mortal world is the only place where that makes a difference, it seems.
I mutter a shaky, “P—Pleased to meet you. I’m…Vastianna.”
She smiles brightly in a way that’s unsettling. “Now that you are here, you are certain to enjoy yourself. We Exalted have privileges even beyond the Dignified.”
The Dignified. Another echelon—perhaps the one beneath this one?
But an idea strikes. “Do you know anyone by the name of Emilia? Emilia Stova?”
She would help me. I know she would. “She’s short with bright blond curls, a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes—”
“New souls enter all the time,” she says.
“It’s unlikely anyone you meet will know the one you seek, or that you’ll find her on your own.
I recommend not clinging to mortal pursuits and ways of thinking.
Many people lose the connection to the ones they loved before coming here rather quickly—a few months at most. A mercy from Moranya.
They prefer to simply move on and build a new life here, crafting new identities, even. ”
Moranya…takes away a soul’s ability to care over time?
“I counsel you to enjoy the new luxuries now available to you. The Modiste’s Hall, for example. It’s right inside the dome pavilion. First set of doors.”
“Modiste?”
“Well, there isn’t an actual modiste, but the space has recently been made available to any Dignified or Exalted. Everything there is free for the taking. His Gloriousness’s orders. He always wants us looking our best, you know.” Dahlia links her arm with mine. “Shall I introduce you around?”
“Thank you, but I had hoped to explore on my own. At least for now.”
She clicks her tongue. “Your prerogative. But you’ll find it easier if you make friends.
This is not the lower echelons where we are forced into doing the labor that sustains the realm.
Ours is a social existence. We are free to enjoy the pleasures of the arts, and what is the purpose of art if not to share it? ”
You are art.
I shake Anton’s words loose from my mind.
“Take my advice. Find a hobby. Be social. Learn to enjoy what you’ve earned in life. And you know,” she says with a wink, “the most fulfilling is the art of lovemaking. Many of us have gotten rather good at it.”
With that, she slinks away. I try to dismiss her comment.
My stomach sinks, and I slump against a column. I have to find Moranya. Surely there’s a way, despite everything Dahlia said. But exhaustion is lodged into my very bones. I’m going to have to find a way to rest—and for more than a few minutes.
At least Dahlia didn’t notice anything different about me, and it seems no one else has, either. The disguise I scrounged together works—at least for now.
By the way several souls disappear into the doorways beyond, I am certain many of them reside here. A privilege of the Exalted, I assume. I follow, searching for a place I might lay my head.
Inside, a wide stairwell carpeted in red leads up to another lounge, complete with an inside bar.
Past that are hallways that branch into long stretches decorated with vast paintings and garniture.
Another set of stairs, and there’s a long dining room with desserts spread about, and souls idling around that, too.
No, not a dining room, but an entire pavilion, with multiple tables, couches, nooks. Still no sign of His Gloriousness.
Music and parties are in full swing in every direction.
There is no rhyme or rhythm to this place, it seems, but I take note of a wide walkway—or bridge, rather—that leads outside and into another, seemingly quiet, palace structure.
Hoping for a slice of solace there—a closet, a secluded hallway with a bench, even—I decide to follow it.
This part of the palace is mostly unlit and unoccupied. Servant dwellings, perhaps? I yank open the double doors and amble inside, the dim hall rather empty save for a few doors. I pull at one, and it opens into…
Nothing. Darkness. A void. There’s no floor, no ceiling, no view whatsoever. Frowning, I push it shut, though the next reveals the same thing. Empty.
The third door, however, opens into a room.
The space is small and squared, with an unlit mantel to my right, bracketed by tall, ornate shelves. A single wingback faces it, with a plush rug set underfoot. Then there’s a desk to my right, stacked with tomes.
A study, I presume. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Ahead is a small balcony, and instead of facing the city, it opens to a curve of mountains behind.
To a private waterfall, in particular.
A fresh, nighttime breeze sweeps into the study, gentle, yet with such weight it feels like being shoved by a tide. Forcing my way out, I clutch the balustrade for support.
Figures splash into a natural pool a few stories below, a thin waterfall dumping into the far end. Giggling echoes about.
I force in a few slow inhales, the air so thick it feels like dragging in mouthfuls of steam. My body aches in every possible way. My quest suddenly feels insurmountable—a burden even heavier than the frame I can barely hold up.
So overwhelmed am I that I’m about to withdraw, to curl into the wingback and forget the world, when a sound—like a door clicking—steals my attention.
It comes from a balcony higher up, adjacent to mine across the curvature of the tower, but just close enough for me to recognize exactly who strides outside.
My pulse takes flight, as if to propel my heart from my very chest.
If possible, his eyes are brighter here than in the mortal world. Like emeralds held to the sun, visible even from where I stand.