Chapter 3
III.
Kerasea
I try to will this gown to cover more of my skin as bearers carry my palanquin through the crowded Forum. But so far, this dress is just another of my recent missteps.
There’s barely room for me to sit up in here.
The palanquin was made for one person to recline on pillows, lounging as servants carry their bed-like box atop poles through the busy city.
It used to be the way the king traveled in the capital.
Still, the people murmur as the golden palanquin passes by.
Thousands of citizens have already gathered in the Forum, waiting for the Revelry to begin, but they make way for my grand entrance.
I’d rather just walk.
But feeling ridiculous in a gilded litter is the least of my problems. I keep smelling that mal omen and seeing the charred blackness. I sent a message informing the Senate Clerk, yet the Revelry is still proceeding. And worse, I allowed myself to think of my blood—and that, I never do.
Never, Kera, don’t even think it, my father said. The mouth is a conduit of the mind. If you think it enough, you will voice it, and no one can ever know your truth. Hide and survive.
Looking for any distraction, I shift the white curtain and peek out the side.
Senator Verhardt sits on a golden throne once occupied by the king.
Goose bumps coat my skin. I’d know the Senate Leader anywhere.
Not from his short gray hair or his large, bulbous nose.
It’s the cruel shape of his lips—and the way his gaze seems to always follow mine.
Verhardt is the senator who orchestrated the Crimson Night and, with the murder of the royals, he became the most powerful man in the republic. I shift a little farther back, careful not to draw his attention.
Next to him stand Antinous, the Senate Clerk, and Julian Monroe, the Capital Commander of the sentries.
The dais of the Verity Guild lies to the left of the throne.
Pol Probus sits in his black robes looking half asleep.
He was appointed three years ago, but he has to be eighty years old if he’s a day.
His eyebrows are completely white, offsetting rich brown skin, and his jowls dip nearly to his shoulders.
Next to him is my empty seat—and then there is the Praetorian.
I close the curtain and lean back on my cushion, my heart already pounding. I grip my gown, wishing I were in temple robes and not this golden, nearly see-through dress.
But as the moments pass, curiosity gets the better of me, because I’m not certain that was the Praetorian.
Torren Morvane should be dressed in armor, and that man, although he was tall with broad shoulders, is wearing a finely tailored suit.
I can only hope some horrible accident befell Torren today.
Otherwise, I have to hope that the Council will refuse to reappoint him at the conclave this week.
But that seems as likely as Verhardt not being reelected as Senate Leader a twentieth time.
I move the curtain just an inch, and the man turns his head, revealing the chiseled features and arrogant forehead I know all too well.
Torren is a shade or two darker than my pale white skin, but his features are accentuated by sapphire blue eyes.
He’s as handsome as he is fearsome, which is no small accomplishment.
Being dressed in cloth makes him look like a man instead of a bronze statue.
I’m not sure which I prefer less.
The Praetorian is twenty-five and, like myself, he stands high on the bones of those who came before him.
Torren was appointed after he tracked down and dismembered the man who murdered the last Praetorian.
I suppose I know better than anyone that no one ever climbs this high with their hands clean.
I leave the curtain closed for the remainder of the short ride to the altar of peace. Too quickly, the bearers come to a stop and set the palanquin on the ground. I take a breath. It’s time. I can do this. I can perform my act for the night. It doesn’t matter who is here.
The curtains part, and I slip my legs out, my glass-and-silver shoes tapping on the stone. A hand reaches down to help me stand. I place my fingers into the warm, rough palm, and an unexpected calmness washes over me.
As I rise out of the litter, I find that it’s not Senator Verhardt holding my hand but the Praetorian. My breath catches. As soon as our eyes meet, he drops his hand and I pull my arm away. His gaze flits to my dress, and he steps to the side, his lip curling.
Gods. I should’ve stayed in my robes, but my chambermaids convinced me that I should wear something befitting this night of sin.
My hands shake, but I keep my head high and even smile at the Praetorian. He nods and gestures for me to take my seat, as if he’s a gentleman.
I suppose we’re both acting tonight.
But we do as we must. The Verity Guild needs to present a united front, especially with the tribunal convening soon. The man accused is the nephew of a senator, and the capital has been abuzz about this case for weeks.
Once I am in place, Senator Verhardt glances at me and then stands. Only the tick in his jaw muscle gives away his annoyance at my tardiness. He’s wearing an expensive silver suit the same color as his hair, a choice I’m sure was intentional. This man does everything with purpose.
Verhardt walks to the edge of the platform and extends his arms. “Welcome, my people of Pryor!”
His gravelly voice booms, and the capital crowd cheers. Verhardt smiles, soaking it in.
“Tonight, on the twentieth anniversary of the birth of the republic, of the Senate Council risking our very souls to deliver the realm from the tyranny of monarchs, we celebrate!”
The crowd roars. I try to picture him as a younger man, hiding a dagger, sweating and shaking, waiting with six other senators to stab the king in the back on the Senate floor, but I can’t imagine it. I’ve always known him as the most powerful man in Pryor.
“We celebrate an end to rulers who think themselves gods and, instead, revel in the installment of leaders selected from you, by you, who serve you, the people. For twenty years, we have prospered, seven provinces coming together as one republic. May Pryor have centuries more freedom than she suffered oppression. May the gods continue to shine their favor on our great nation.”
He pauses and glances at the dais. My stomach knots under his stare.
“Justice and truth led us from a tyrannical realm to a free republic of equals. Tonight, we ask the High Priestess of the temple of truth to light the way of the Revelry.”
That’s my cue. I stand and take my place next to Verhardt, the gold of my dress flowing like water around me.
The Senate Leader has known me since I was a baby, but he still eyes my plunging neckline and curves.
Ignoring the turn of my stomach, I focus on my role.
He remains in the center, a position of unquestioned power, so I’m forced to stand to his left.
The crowd hushes, and I slowly climb down the stairs and then walk to the drained fountain in the center of the Forum. A temple guard holds a torch out for me, and I light the bale of straw in the basin. As it flames to life, I breathe a sigh of relief. My job is done for tonight.
I hand the torch back to the guard but then lock eyes with the boy I helped earlier. His face breaks into a wide smile.
“Hail High Priestess, the heart of our nation!” he yells out.
After a moment of complete silence, the crowd around me erupts in screams and cheers. The mob roars louder than they did for Senator Verhardt as they chant “heart of our nation.”
I glance at the altar and catch the Praetorian’s stare. He quirks an eyebrow.
Verhardt is also looking at me. I incline my head to the Senate Leader, but I don’t miss how his brown eyes narrow, as if he’s reevaluating whether I’m a threat.
I’ve heard the stories—ever since the rise of the republic, Verhardt has ruthlessly eliminated all competition.
There are even thoughts that he had his own son killed, although I don’t believe that.
His eldest child merely succumbed to a deadly fever that swept through the capital a dozen years ago.
Verhardt says the senators are chosen of and by the people, but after they killed the king, the Senate appointed themselves for life. There aren’t elections unless one dies, so I have to make this right or he will outlast me.
Once I return to the altar, I turn dramatically and gesture to him.
I bow at my waist with my leg forward and a hand over my heart.
The people cheer again, but this time for him, for the Faith submitting to the Council.
Verhardt’s thin lips turn up in a grin, and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
The tension defused for now, I retake my seat, trying not to tremble.
Both Mirial and my father told me to be careful with Verhardt.
Father called the Senate Council a pit of vipers and said the role of the temple is that of a snake charmer.
I must be on my guard, be friendly but never friends. Trusted but never trusting.
I’m attentive to Verhardt, but as I sit on my cushion, I’m far too conscious of the Praetorian beside me. I feel him the way prey animals sense predators skulking nearby. My skin turns to gooseflesh as he leans closer to me.
“How much did you pay the kid?” he whispers.
Ire rises through my chest, and I clench my teeth until my jaw aches.
I shouldn’t engage, because I know he’s goading me.
I shouldn’t respond, even if true believers hailing the Faith have been dismissed as a cheap ploy.
The temple doesn’t shift when a child kicks at its stones.
I am above taking the bait from someone like him.
“Shouldn’t you be cutting off a man’s toes for fun?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Surprise lights his features, and then he rests his arm on the back of my chair. He keeps his gaze on the crowd as they sing the anthem of Pryor, but his nearness is unsettling. Having avoided each other successfully since we were children, we’ve never been this close.
“You have your bird signs; I have other means of getting to the truth.”
His deep voice rumbles. I inhale and pretend like I don’t feel it in the base of my spine. Morbid curiosity fills me, and I want to ask what he means, but then I remember that I don’t have casual conversations with this man. And then I recall why.
Torren Morvane became Praetorian at the age of twenty-one—by delivering a man to the Senate in burned pieces.
He used tactics so brutal, they changed the rules of engagement after.
And looking at him now, I can see that capacity for violence.
It’s branded into him from the tightness of his jaw to the curve of his fist.
The temple had advised against his appointment because Torren’s father was a convicted traitor. Treachery seeps into the blood, my father said, but the Council insisted they would not hold the acts of the father against the son.
Yet, Torren holds it against me. Rather than blame the traitor for his own disloyalty, the Praetorian decided to hate us for my father simply seeing justice done.
No matter how harsh the sentence, his father was the one who committed the crimes.
Twelve years ago, I swore to what I witnessed, and the Verity Guild rightly convicted him.
I force myself to move away as Verhardt finally sits. The Capital Commander rises, and that draws the Praetorian’s attention.
With a population of a million people, the capital city has its own commander of the sentries. Julian Monroe is only twenty-four, but he is a future patron and the nephew of General Hadrian. Which is all to say, the man is connected, elite, and in a position of great power. He is someone to watch.
“Now that the Revelry has officially commenced, I’d like to take a moment to remind the people of this great city that we will be standing guard,” Julian says.
“It’s a night of celebration and sin, but make your celebration large and your sins small or you risk spending the Atonement in a cold jail cell.
” He pauses, his heavy gaze sweeping across the crowd before a wide smile overtakes his features. “Happy Revelry!”
The crowd cheers, and even the Praetorian smiles slightly.
The citizens of Pryor will now feast and celebrate until predawn. Then, shortly after sunrise, they’ll fall on their knees, repenting for Atonement Day.
Senator Verhardt approaches the dais with his sentries.
“Shall we retire to the terrace for refreshments?” Verhardt asks.
Probus nods and stands first—I suppose he was actually awake. Verhardt offers me his arm while barely acknowledging the Praetorian.
“Of course,” I say.
Verhardt looks over his shoulder and commands the Praetorian like a dog. “Follow along.”
It should feel good to see Torren put in his place, but for some reason, it doesn’t. An uneasy sensation tightens my stomach, and I turn and glance at him. He’s silent, but there’s fire in his expression. Our eyes meet and he looks away, coloring slightly.
I face straight ahead, regret filling me. I shouldn’t have turned or felt even a touch of sympathy. The Praetorian would not feel a drop of compassion for me. No, he’d hunt me down and dismember me without mercy if he knew what I am. I’ve been sure of that for years.
Then I sigh as I remember: the conclave begins tomorrow night. Meaning I’ll be locked in with him atop Mount Ara for a week, with no means of escape.