Chapter 2
CHAPTERTWO
After absorbing energy,I’m euphoric. I can think clearer, move faster, breathe better. My senses come alive. With the life force of another coursing through my veins, I am complete.
Making my way through the writhing crowd, I move as quickly as I can with the heavy veyl and dank heat weighing me down. My feet sink into the cool sand with each step, slowing me down further. The night isn’t over yet. Now, I must meet Mother in the throne room for the transference ceremony. I can’t wait to give her what she wants and be done with it so I can go back to being myself…at least until this time next week.
I want nothing more than to join Ilona in her suite and catch up on the latest palace gossip over a cup of tea. She’s befriended most of the kitchen staff and always hears the most interesting tidbits of conversation. Most of their information is false, but it doesn’t make the tales any less entertaining. Perhaps tomorrow we will even wake early and ride to Paramour Falls—a set of twin waterfalls hidden deep in the jungle that cascade down into a lovely freshwater swimming hole. One of my favorite places on the island. The heat makes the journey a burden, but the horses don’t mind the distance since they’re able to wade into the shallow end of the pond to cool down.
As the sand gives way to packed dirt at the edge of the jungle, I increase my pace. I scurry along the gently sloping, narrow trail toward the palace. I’m in a hurry to finish the night.
The thick, lush canopies overhead obscure the night sky. Without the moonlight or the glow of the bonfire to illuminate the forest, it’s almost pitch black, but I’ve traversed this short distance enough times that I could make it back to the palace with my eyes closed.
The jungle always has a fresh aroma. Rejuvenating, despite the stifling air. The cacophony of insects resonates around me. They don’t sleep at this hour.
My hands itch to rip off the veyl so I can run the rest of the way home and be done with the transference, but I must stay covered in case of wandering eyes. Plus, Mother always makes a ceremony out of the transference. She invites her advisors, the diplomats stationed here, and the village’s noble families to bear witness as I release the newly obtained energy into her body.
With flowing wine and lowered inhibitions, the transference ceremonies end up being as scandalous as the bacchanals. The main difference is the power divide among the attendees—the bacchanals consist mostly of ordinary townsfolk while the ceremony consists of those with magic, money, or status.
Sometimes, Mother’s guests will attend the bacchanal, then the ceremony after. Like they can’t indulge themselves enough.
Considering I rarely attend any of Mother’s other events, no one notices that their princess never attends the ceremony or bacchanals. I skip most things she hosts—her balls, socials, seasonal dinners, and the like. I go unnoticed as the princess, which is a big reason why it’s easy to go unnoticed as the vessel.
Since the guards are rotated out every few years and turnover for servants in the palace is high, it’s hard to make friends. At this point, I don’t even bother to learn most of their names.
Blades of grass tickle my feet as I emerge from the jungle thicket and cross the manicured lawn. Although the palace, with its rounded mansard roofs and marble and limestone walls is grand, it sits only one story high. The low, sturdy design protects it from the high winds and rains during storm season, while the pale stone reflects heat.
The normal island storms are dangerous on their own, but sometimes they’re fueled by wild magic dredged up from the deep sea. The magic fuels the storms in a deadly combination of hail, lightning, fire, and high winds, causing extensive damage and deaths. The wild magic itself isn’t deadly—the way it intensifies the storms is. Luckily it’s only elemental magic, similar to aethyn power, and nothing like myndox or vygora magic.
The palace, sprawled across the well-tended courtyard, consists of three main wings. The center portion—where the central foyer, throne room, ballroom, main dining room, and largest library are—is slightly taller than the side wings. The wing to the left, where I’m headed, is where the servants’ quarters, kitchens, and stables are located. On the opposite side, to the right, are the main suites. The royal wing. There’s also a plethora of unnecessary rooms scattered throughout the palace—receiving rooms, solariums, lavatories, smaller libraries, pantries, and more.
Mother loves excess.
Our lavish palace set high on the jungle hill, away from the village center, certainly reflects that.
There’s even a subterranean level that houses the war room, sparring areas, and safe spaces in which to practice magic. Deeper yet, there’s a level I’ve never visited: a dungeon of sorts known as the pit. As far as I know, it’s unused. I’ve never been down there because it requires an authorized touch for entry. Only Mother and her commanders have access.
Thanks to aethyns with the power of harnessing water elements, the palace’s stone is infused with ice, kept magically cool. A reprieve from the heat.
Mother’s voice echoes in my head: The vessel should enter discreetly like a servant, not through the main doors like a guest.
I pass the gardens and stables, heading toward the servants’ entrance off to the left. Fire-infused sconces, anchored to the marble walls, light the courtyard—lit thanks to aethyn power as well—and illuminate the entrance.
Something catches my eye next to the door, and I pause. The pale orange light of the flames washes over a lean man dressed in unusual clothes. Rather than the typical Hakranian bright colors and thin layers, he’s wearing a beige doublet and dark brown breeches. Chocolate-brown waves messily frame his face as he leans against the wall.
I hesitate, eyeing his demeanor, and wonder who the hell he is and what he’s doing here.
Another, less malicious, side of my vygora power is the ability to read other people’s emotions. It’s not as exciting as pulling their life force out, but it’s harmless and sometimes useful. Like now.
Focusing, I close my eyes and try to draw his emotions toward me…but instead of receiving a wave of foreign emotion, nothing comes. It’s like he’s empty of emotion. But that’s not possible. Everyone has emotions, even if it’s subtle like relaxation or contentment.
My brows draw together, and I open my eyes to ensure he hasn’t left.
He hasn’t moved.
Clearing my mind, I try again.
Emptiness greets me, as if there’s a barrier I can’t cross. Even with the excess life force heightening my own senses and power, I still can’t draw his emotions out.
What the hell?
I scowl at him from beneath the veyl, but he startles me when he cocks open an eye, grinning right at me as if he can see me beneath the cloth.
“Hello, mi lady,” he says with a smirk. His voice is sensual. Though I can’t read his emotions with my power, his demeanor and tone tell me he’s relaxed—arms crossed, head tilted back, one foot propped up on the wall behind him.
The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and as he moves the gap in cloth widens to reveal a tanned chest. My cheeks heat.
Great. Naked bodies no longer make me blush, but apparently a fully dressed stranger does.
With a physique like that, I’d say he’s a laborer. But despite being a little disheveled, his clothing is too nice. Although it’s clearly foreign, it’s clean and well-made.
We aren’t expecting any new diplomats or visitors from other countries, but even if we were, why would he be out here, alone?
Something is clearly off about this man… If I weren’t so intrigued, I’d be more alarmed.
Why can’t I pull his emotions?
“You don’t belong here,” I say.
I shouldn’t engage him. Mother would be furious if she knew I spoke from beneath my veyl. The vessel doesn’t speak. Someone could recognize my voice. Impulsivity and curiosity win the battle though, locking my feet in place.
His grin deepens, and his eyes crinkle adorably at the corners. “And you do?” He shrugs, standing tall and releasing his arms from where they were folded across his chest.
“Clearly.”
“You could be anyone beneath that curtain.”
“I’m Queen Enira’s vessel,” I say with conviction. Everyone knows of the queen’s power and of her vessel. She’s feared far and wide. I might not be able to draw his emotions toward me, but I bet he would still succumb to me absorbing his life force if I needed to. Perhaps that’s why I’m not as threatened as I should be.
“Would the Dead Queen truly let her prized toy traipse through the jungle unattended?”
“I don’t have time for this.” I step forward, but he moves in front of me, blocking the door with his muscular body. As much as I want to figure out why he’s here, Mother will not be pleased if I keep her waiting.
“Seems dangerous, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
“If you were truly the vessel, you could stop…a threat, no?”
“Shoo.”
“Did you shoome?” His mouth quirks with humor as he looks down at me. He’s at least a foot taller than I am.
“You shouldn’t be back here.” If he’s here for the bacchanal, he should be down by the beach where the people play, not here by the servants’ entrance, especially not if he’s visiting Hakran from elsewhere.
“They say Queen Enira covers you because you’re hideous. A demon, in fact.” Even though his smile fades, there’s a twinkle in his eye. His comment was meant as a challenge.
I ignore him, moving around him to get to the door, but he sidesteps, blocking my path again. His scent invades me—something like sandalwood. Intoxicating.
“They say many things,” I reply. It’s true. I hear most of it, especially with Ilona being so close to the chatty palace staff. I wonder if they’d say such cruel things if they knew the vessel was their princess.
“I think the truth is in what they don’t say. That your queen is nothing but a manipulating—”
“Stop!” I raise a hand under my veyl though I know he can’t see it. Lowering my voice, I add, “That’s treason. She can execute you for it.” Mother doesn’t tolerate traitorous remarks well. Not that we’ve had any for as long as I can remember, but there’s a reason for that.
Despite the heat, a chill works its way up my spine. My breath comes in quick pants. I didn’t think this man was a threat initially, but the way he’s talking is making me quite uncomfortable. Being alone with him out here feels like a bad idea.
“Not if you don’t tell her.” He takes another step closer, he’s now so close that his body brushes the fabric of my veyl. He doesn’t look much older than me and he carries himself with cocky confidence. “As for what you’re hiding under there, I’ll find out soon enough.”
I stare at him in shock, frozen in place by his arrogance.
Did he just threaten to uncover my identity?
He throws in a casual wink before sauntering off around the side of the palace, disappearing into the deep-blue shadows of night.
Whoever that man is, he’s a threat.
As I make my way to the throne room, my head swivels compulsively with the unsettling need to check over my shoulder every few steps.
* * *
Scurrying through the vast marble corridors toward the main hall, I pass a few wide-eyed servants and masked guards who nod in respect.
They don’t respect me for me; they respect me out of fear of Mother.
My mind flits to the arrogant stranger who seemed to neither fear nor respect Mother. I wonder who he is and how long he’ll be here. Secrets live in those golden-brown eyes of his, and his mysterious intentions make me nervous. No way would Mother allow someone she doesn’t trust to roam unguarded around the palace.
And why couldn’t I feel his energy? I’d think something was wrong with my magic, but with the extra life force swimming through me from the bacchanal, I’m as strong as ever.
I can’t help but find myself intrigued. Drawn to the potential danger.
Hopefully he’s discreet and doesn’t do anything idiotic to end up on the receiving end of Mother’s wrath.
I move as fast as the veylwill let me, grateful for the cool stones of the palace walls. Inside, without the thick air of summer pressing on my lungs, I can breathe more easily.
Despite growing up here, I’ve never quite felt at home in the palace. Perhaps it’s the opulence, the vastness. With white marble, golden fixtures, and an excess of columns and windows, it’s absolutely stunning, but it lacks something I can’t quite put into words.
I rest comfortably here, but my heart isn’t attached to the space. There’s no ache to return when I spend the day away. No deep relaxation that penetrates my bones after a long day.
No grand excitement breaking up the monotonous days. Perhaps that’s another reason I’m drawn to that mysterious man.
Four guards stand outside of the throne room, giving me a small nod of acknowledgement when I arrive. They are dressed in identical midnight-colored leather uniforms with headgear, and everything other than their jaw, eyes, and hands are covered. Male and female guards are virtually indistinguishable from one another. Most of them have similar dark coloring and muscular builds, but I can tell some of them apart by their stature and their eye color.
Newer guards wield basic staffs with blunt tops and minimal functionality—though I’m sure they could still do some damage—or no staff at all. Commanders and the higher-ranking guards wield elemental staffs infused with aethyn power, which allows them to use the elements as weapons.
Most of the commanders and guards are posted near the coasts, with the sentries stationed inside the palace. I’ve never gotten to know any of them, other than Commander Jamell, who stays at the palace by Mother’s side and trains with me a few times a week.
Everyone on the island knows they’re here as a precaution. A show of power. If anyone ever tried to overtake the palace, the real threat is Mother. If anyone were to get near her, they would be vulnerable to her effortless mental manipulation.
Or maybe the real threat is me? I’d imagine if the situation were dire enough, Mother would reveal the depths of my vygora powers and allow me to protect us.
They believe I can onlyread emotions as a vygora, and thusthey think me weak. Imagine their surprise at discovering their princess can absorb life force with a simple touch. That the vessel is not a faceless puppet controlled by their queen after all.
Part of me almost wishes we’d find ourselves under attack so I could reveal the truth and allow the two sides of me to merge into one. I hate being torn between personas, not knowing who I really am.
Tonight, I continue playing my role of vessel for Mother and make my way through the throne room toward Mother’s dais. Even from a distance, her smile is vicious. Her gold crown glints with black diamonds, which complement the coloring of her onyx throne but contrast severely against the pale stone walls and floor.
A few dozen people stand on either side of the center walkway, watching as I cover the distance. Paying them no mind, I focus on Mother’s throne in front of me. Just a few yards ahead now, three steps up.
I can’t help but think importing marble to the island must’ve been incredibly expensive, since it’s not found naturally on Hakran. Building the entire palace from expensive stone was merely one way of flaunting her wealth. Shame burns in me as I think of the many villagers living in poverty while we live in excess.
The mass of people is a kaleidoscope of color in the edges of my vision. Their liveliness is at odds with the woman they worship.
Their Dead Queen.
Such a juxtaposition.
Some people bow their heads and chant small prayers to the goddess under their breath. I roll my eyes at their credulity, knowing they can’t see me.
Mother stands as I draw near, raising her arms above her head and looking up toward the towering ceiling. A large oval window sits behind her, and moonlight leaks in, highlighting her in silver light. Other than a few sconces on the walls, the window is the only light source. On darker nights—when the moon is hidden behind storm clouds—it’s too dark to see the steps in front of me. Luckily, there’s enough of a glow tonight to see as I carefully climb, cautious of getting tangled in the veyl and tripping.
Ilona’s words about Mother’s elaborate manipulation have burrowed their way into my head, unsettling me. Distracting me. I stumble as I step toward Mother.
“Bestowed by the goddess! My vessel. Bring forth the life force and bless your queen,” she says, her voice echoing off the stone.
The crowd replies in unison, “Blessed by the goddess. Long live the queen!” They break out in an uproar of cheers, and the guards situated around the room pound their staffs onto the floor. It echoes like a familiar song.
Clang, clang, clang.
Kneeling on the cool stone in front of her chair, I hang my head in submission. Mother remains standing, giving her speech of thanks to the original goddess—the most powerful being to ever exist—for splitting her power and creating the many old gods and goddesses that used to be worshipped, for allowing those gods and goddesses to procreate and pass their power down to those worthy of the magic, and for giving her such a blessing.
Stories.
That’s what they are. Myths that the people cling to, that explain the otherwise unknown.
She launches into a speech about how the people must trust and follow her.
I’m glad she can’t see my facial expressions under the veyl.
“With the life force energy from our sacred sacrifices, your queen will remain young and powerful—able to protect our beloved island of Hakran from uncertainty or peril. Your queen will ensure the longevity of your kin. With these sacrifices, we attain security. We prosper.”
“Riveting,” I mumble sarcastically under my breath. Mother’s use of the third-person perplexes me.
The crowd roars back, “Security, longevity, prosperity. Blessed be the people. Long live the queen!”
With my head still bowed, my neck begins to ache.
Hurry up already.
Finally, I hear her call to me.
“Come, vessel.”
She sits on her throne, and I crawl the two feet forward, trying not to become tangled in my veyl. It has become second nature after so many transference ceremonies, but I still dread this part every time.
Reaching a bare hand out of the veyl’s slit, I slide it under Mother’s wispy skirts, planting it on the naked skin of her ankle. Once my palm is wrapped around her calf, I focus on calling forth the energy I absorbed from the bacchanal’s sacrifice.
From the girl with too much sun and heavy breasts.
Poor girl.
I didn’t even know her name; I doubt Mother would even care. Trying not to picture her face, I swallow my guilt as I complete the task.
The unnatural, miserable task of transference.
Absorbing energy from a given sacrifice fills me with pleasure–it’s as if the life force is desperate to be consumed by me–but transference is radically different. It’s as if my body, my magic, pleads with me not to let the energy go. It’s pure agony.
As if it’s warning me to stop.
Fire consumes my body as I try to release the energy, as though my organs are melting inside of me. Gritting my teeth, I fight against the pain, forcing the energy out through my palm and into Mother’s skin. This is clearly not painful for her.
Blackness swarms in front of my vision, and I begin to sweat despite the cool temperature of the throne room. By the time the feeling ebbs, I’m dizzy.
Dry.
Empty.
The crowd continues to chant behind me.
“Blessed be the people. Long live the queen! Blessed be the people! Long live the queen!”
There’s a faraway ringing in my ears, and it invades my head. Normally, I’m tired after a transference, but once the pain subsides, my regular strength and energy return. This time, I’m depleted, lacking the strength to even raise my head and look at Mother.
Without warning, my stomach roils, and a bitter taste arises in my mouth. I dry-heave once before the entire contents of my stomach—half-digested beef and potato stew—spew in a chunky mess inside of the veyl.
The stench is too much—heavy and sour—the veyl suffocating.
A raw, carnal screech of disgust leaves Mother’s throat as she places her heel in the center of my chest, shoving me away from her. She pushes a bit too hard, and I tumble backwards down the cold steps. With the veyl’s fabric tangling around me, I’m unable to catch myself.
It’s a quick fall, but my head slams against the hard floor with a whack.
The last thing I hear is Mother calling for a guard to escort me away.
Then silence consumes me. Darkness feasts on my senses.