Chapter 48

Chapter 48

T he reflection looking out at Anniliese Hareth was that of a stranger.

Beautiful, yes. The same face she recognized, pale skin beneath rosy cheeks, dark brown hair delicately curled into ringlets down her back. Her gown was a deep royal blue, the honey of her eyes enhanced by the gold shimmer across her lids.

Everything about her was the same. And yet, there was so much she didn’t recognize.

The flatness behind her gaze. The bags beneath her eyes. The sickly pallor of her skin, and the lack of shine in her tresses.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. Ever since she’d stupidly confronted Lord Shawth about the thing dwelling in this castle with them, she’d felt haunted. Followed. Watched. As if something hung over her head like a storm, eager to snatch her in its clutches and drag her into that darkness, kicking and screaming.

She’d refused to meet Lady Beauchamp for tea. Refused to join her father for dinner. Refused to do anything but sit by the window in her room, trying desperately to soak up the weak rays of the spring sun. Too scared to leave, too scared to fight, too scared to move. Wasting away in the safety of her rooms.

Until today.

Her father himself had delivered the invitation. Handed it to Anniliese, her fingers curling around the fine paper, with a stern warning that she would attend, as would he. Their host had summoned them, and it was not an invitation she could refuse.

After all, Lord Shawth had something to show them. Something Lord Hareth claimed could secure the power of the Royals in the kingdom forever. No more bothersome queens, no more relying on mysterious, finicky magic to choose unworthy, clueless women who could not make hard choices. To do what needed to be done.

Anniliese didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to know. She wanted to be excluded from these petty power plays. Wanted to be forgotten by Lord Shawth and her father, wanted to be ignored by the queen and her little court who played at ruling in the palace.

Anniliese wanted to melt into the walls and never be seen again.

Of course, she would not be lucky enough to get her wish. Not today.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door. She straightened. Ever the well-bred and well-trained lady of a great Onitan Royal house.

“Come in.” Her voice was soft. Muted. Polished.

The handle twisted, and her father stepped through the door. His eyes quickly traced down his daughter’s silhouette. His mouth tightened, and he nodded once, a terse movement.

“Good. You’re ready.” He picked a piece of lint off the lapel of his jacket, the only sign of his nervous energy. “It is time to go.” He extended his arm to his daughter, the invitation to escort her clear.

If Anniliese were stronger, more independent, she would’ve refused him. Would’ve spit in his face for being weak, for allowing a man like Lord Shawth to do as he wished.

She was not that woman. Not the woman Mariah had asked her to be. Not fit to make such a stand for herself. She’d tried once and had been left weak and embarrassed.

Life was easier without such questions, anyways. Much simpler to fall into place where she was told to go, to let the men in her life lead her through the steps. To make those choices for her.

So, Anniliese Hareth gathered her heavy skirts and faced her father. She strode to him, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, and let him lead her into the dark, cold halls of Khento.

Everyone in the castle was in attendance.

They were outside in the castle gardens, the same ones Anniliese had let Mariah and her Armature escape from all those weeks ago. Lord Shawth lounged upon a black and gold throne arranged on a temporary dais, his watery blue eyes watching as his guests filed into raised stands.

The center space of the gardens was bare, a great empty area circled by those risers, yet a buzzing sort of energy pressed on Anniliese’s skin. A gentle wind brushed from the south, sweeping around her and tugging at her perfect curls.

She fiddled with her choker necklace, the delicate black stone cool against her fingertips. Her gaze fixed on the chairs beside Lord Shawth, five similar thrones of dark mahogany on the raised dais.

A jostling beside her tugged her attention away. Her father pried her fingers from his arm, patting her hand once before stepping back.

“I must join our host,” he said. “Stay here with the rest of the ladies of the court.”

Anniliese nodded, her mind still quiet.

As her father moved off, following the procession of the other Onitan Royal lords-–Lords Beauchamp, Campion, Laurent, and Cordaro—Lady Beauchamp filled the gap Anniliese’s father had left by her side.

“I heard we are in for a real treat tonight, my dear. Are you not excited?”

“Yes,” Anniliese murmured, still playing with her necklace. “Very excited.”

Lady Beauchamp turned away with an empty smile on her face. The other ladies of the court wore similar expressions, all pretty pets to watch their husbands and fathers and uncles convince each other of the superior power they held.

A few other lesser lords and their families were also in attendance—Lord Donnet, of Andburgh, the most vocal of them. A smile spread wide across his bullish face, and he had a feverish gleam in his eyes.

“You are all going to love this,” he said, voice loud as always, carrying easily to her place on the risers. “I haven’t seen it yet, of course, but Lord Shawth informed me of what to expect last night over glasses of his finest whiskey. That little whore queen will never see our next move coming.”

Anniliese’s attention wandered back to the Royals now gathered on the dais. They had each taken their seats beside Shawth, expressions ranging from barely concealed nervousness, to excitement, to the stoic coldness of Lord Laurent.

That hardly meant anything, though. That was the only expression the Lord of Antoris seemed to wear these days. Despite the fire magic Anniliese knew he carried in his veins, magic he rarely ever used, he was all but made of ice and stone.

“My esteemed guests.” Lord Shawth’s voice boomed across the gardens, and the chatter and whispers tinkling around Anniliese in the risers faded away. The Lord of Khento rose from his mock throne, tugging on the buttons of his embroidered red and black cloak, chest puffed out and a grin plastered across his face. He took a few steps forward, gaze fixed across the gardens, on the doors leading into his castle. He halted on the top dais step before turning to the risers, still wearing that foxlike smile.

“My guests,” he repeated. “I thank you all for the honor of joining me this evening. Tonight, we shall usher in a new age of Onita, one in which those who are best suited to power will freely wield it.”

Cheers echoed around the risers. Anniliese kept her hands folded in front of her, expression blank and empty. The perfect porcelain doll as the men around her celebrated.

“Too long we have suffered beneath the control of a goddess who never paid us any heed. When was the last time any of you asked Qhohena for a favor, and she answered your prayer?” Mumbles of disgust answered Shawth.

“I was robbed several months ago,” Lord Donnet grumbled, “and despite all my prayers and offerings, the culprit has still not been brought to justice.”

“I say,” continued Lord Shawth, “it is time for a change. Why should the gods decide our fate? And better yet, why should we hand our loyalty to a deity who does not deserve it?” He lifted his hands up, as if in exaltation. “No more! Qhohena is not the only god in this world. It is time we, as the leaders of our great nation, choose a new patron.” Lord Shawth turned his hands to the castle doors across the gardens, gesturing feverishly.

“And I am not alone in this thought! High Priestess Ksee, if you would join us, please.”

Anniliese whirled, along with the rest of the gathered court, as the castle doors swung open.

A figure strode into the gardens, clothed not in the pale gold robes Anniliese expected but in a gown of brilliant white. The material extended all the way to the figure’s wrists, the high neckline wrapping around the column of her throat, the train spreading behind her across the path. Even her head was hooded, hiding her features, a demure picture of purity and submissiveness. Behind her, six other women followed, all dressed the same, all subdued and obedient.

Anniliese couldn’t help her gaping mouth as she watched High Priestess Ksee walk the length of the gardens before dropping to her knees, head bowed. Her priestesses followed her lead, a pretty, white picture as they knelt before the Royals.

“We are honored to join you on this marvelous day, My Lords.” Ksee’s voice was the same—still grating, still too nasally—despite the change in her appearance. “We pray the God of the Stars accepts our plea and bestows his favor to us all.”

Anniliese’s skin prickled. God of the Stars? Did Ksee mean Priam?

“Has our Lord Priam spoken to you of late, High Priestess?”

Well, that answered Anniliese’s question.

“Yes, My Lord.” Ksee lifted her head, and the change in angle cast a bit of her face in the sunlight. She looked about the same, but there was something muted about her. Something slightly off about the pallor of her skin.

“The great god Priam speaks to me in my dreams. He tells me he is ashamed of his Consort, of Qhohena, to whom I previously dedicated my life. She has abandoned him, as she has abandoned us, and has forged her own path away from that of righteousness and good. She has even pulled her cursed sister, the wicked goddess of death, from the depths of Enfara itself and now rules in the heavens with Zadione by her side.”

Shocked whispers and outraged shouts echoed through the gardens. Anniliese stilled, her blood rushing cold.

Tales of the goddess of death were whispered to all Onitan children. They were warned to hide all thoughts of the goddess, to ignore her existence, lest she learn of theirs.

Lest she use her dark powers of pain and death to snatch them from their beds and drag them down to join her in the cursed pit of the gods which she’d made both her prison and her sanctuary.

“I know, I know, my people.” Ksee’s voice rang out louder as she rose, turning to face the gathered crowd. The slight wrinkles in her face were more pronounced, her pale skin washed of color in the setting sun. The shouts died down with the priestess’s movement; the crowd’s attention was ensnared, fear thick in the air.

“It’s a troublesome thought indeed to realize that our goddess has abandoned us. But as I said, Priam has spoken to me. He has shared how we might still save our country and our families.”

More silence answered Ksee as she paused. Anniliese’s heart thudded in her chest, her fingers back to playing with her black stone necklace.

“Priam has long hidden behind his Consort, hiding his true strength from us. But no more. Tonight, we will beseech him for his blessing and call forth the truth of his power. We know him as the one who escorts our dead, but he is so much more than that. With his power, we will become unstoppable, regardless of whatever pretty gifts Qhohena and her cursed sister may throw our way.”

Fear—true, sickening, twisted fear—wormed its way into Anniliese’s gut, settling low, just beneath her lungs. It clenched tight, wrapping around her insides, even as the gardens erupted into cacophonous cheers.

A slow smile spread across Ksee’s face. She turned back to Lord Shawth, dipping her head to him once more.

“We are ready for you, My Lord.”

Shawth nodded, and the other Royals rose from their seats as he took his first steps down the dais. The six Royal lords of Onita followed him down the garden path to where Ksee stood in the center, patiently waiting with her six white-clad priestesses kneeling behind her, each as still as a statue.

Nothing about this felt right to Anniliese. Nothing at all. But there was nothing she could do but watch.

Ksee turned to her priestesses. “Rise, followers of Priam.”

They rose as one, heads still downcast.

From a pocket concealed deep within her gown, Ksee withdrew an object. A flat bit of shining black stone, inscribed with runes and letterings in a language Anniliese did not understand. The Royals strode past Ksee, each moving to stand behind a priestess.

A priestess for each lord.

When Anniliese saw the glint of six steel knives appear, it took every bit of her control—every single year of court training, every brutal slap across her ribs and thighs, every night sent to bed without dinner for speaking or acting out of turn—to keep herself from crying out. From breaking right there. From doing anything other than what she did.

Which was … nothing.

Ksee turned to the first priestess, Lord Beauchamp standing behind her. The High Priestess murmured a few words over the stone, either too quiet or in a language that Anniliese’s ears refused to register.

The girl’s hands trembled beneath her white robes.

“Thank you for your sacrifice. Be with Priam.” Ksee’s prayer rang out across the gardens.

Just before Lord Beauchamp slit her throat.

Air choked in the priestess’s lungs, her hands grappling to hold in the fluid as her lifeblood poured from her neck. It dumped over Ksee’s hands, over the object she held.

Beneath the blood, the runes pulsed a strange orangish gold, like the color of a dying sun. A ringing started in Anniliese’s ears, and she swore the sky darkened, just a touch.

Ksee moved to the next priestess. This time, it was Lord Cordaro who was to end her life. Those runes pulsed brighter, the air buzzed, the sky dimmed.

Again, with Lord Campion.

It was soon Anniliese’s father who held a blade to a young woman’s throat. The girl couldn’t be much younger than Anniliese herself, and yet her father pressed cold steel to her pale neck and drew it back, spilling ruby blood across the stone in Ksee’s hands.

Anniliese feared she might be sick. But she held her back rigid, her hand wrapped tightly around the choker at her neck. As if desperate to know that it was not her throat, not her blood.

Not her.

It didn’t help much.

Next, Lord Laurent. His cut was deep and brutal, and the girl’s head nearly split from her body as she collapsed to the ground.

By the time Ksee arrived at Lord Shawth, the grassy garden floor was slick and seeped with blood, the High Priestess’s white gown stained ruby-red. The strange stone pulsed brilliantly, and above them, blotting out the setting sun, gathered a dark mass of writhing shadow.

It felt the same as the hallways of Lord Shawth’s family wing. Vile and evil and wrong, something that shouldn’t exist in this world but was filled with wild glee to be here.

Shawth brandished his weapon. Ksee lifted her voice.

“Send us your might, great Priam! Bless us with the power to vanquish your enemies and emerge as the victors, forever protected by your grace.”

Shawth dragged his dagger across the final priestess’s throat.

The moment the priestess’s blood washed over the dark stone, Anniliese screamed.

She wasn’t the only one. The pressure cracked through the gardens, a whirlwind of smoke and shadow and orange-gold light. It licked and grabbed her skin, too-greedy hands desperate for more to take, take, take. Possession and control, hunger and want.

Above them, the mass of shadows split open and nightmares poured forth.

Creatures made of cracked, scaled skin and taloned feet. Creatures with maws filled with massive yellow teeth, forked tongues tasting the air, yellow poison dripping from their jaws. Leathery wings and spindly limbs, bat-like ears and glowing red eyes.

Anniliese knew them. Their depictions had been drilled into her since her schooling, plucked straight from the histories of the First War.

Mudae .

“Demons!” someone yelled.

“Monsters!” shrieked another.

Shawth lifted a hand to the crowds in the risers, even as the devils of history continued to pour forth from the sky.

“History has been a lie! These are not the demons of Enfara, but the warriors of Priam!” A beast landed beside Shawth in the blood-soaked grass, its lips pulling back into a terrifying snarl.

Shawth smiled.

“They are here to protect you. And to bring us our victory.”

The crowd quieted, voices snuffing out in terror. Shawth faced the mudae beside him.

“Bring me what I need to break her. Bring them to me. As your master promised.”

With a bone-chilling shriek, the demon spread its wings and launched skyward, its brethren close behind.

Anniliese could do nothing but watch them go. Everything in her was so cold, so twisted. Fear made its home in her chest, freezing her from the inside out.

Her hands wrenched hard at her choker, a desperate impulse against the thrum of the demons’ wings.

The delicate jewelry snapped, the black stone falling to the grass.

She didn’t look to see where it landed.