The Crimson Crown, page 10
“I’m…here for Longest Night,” I fumble.
He barks a laugh. “You and everyone else. But you can’t just—” His attention pauses on the front of my dress and his expression softens. “Ah. A Sister, are you?”
Thank the Spirits I hadn’t changed out of my uniform. I nod furiously. “Yes. I am.”
“Why didn’t you say? Go on then.” The guard waves me through. “Follow the main road until it turns right. Can’t miss the Sanctum from there. And take caution, mind. People are feeling festive.”
I’m not sure what he means, but I won’t waste time by asking questions. Nettle and I hurry off before the man can think better of it. I don’t get far. As soon as I step through the city gates, all thoughts of the guard, or my plan, or anything else, are instantly smashed by a wall of noise and activity. By the Spirits, there are so many people.
Some are richly dressed, riding about in elaborate carriages, their wide wheels clattering down the streets. Those in plainer clothes or uniforms weave their way on foot between the closely packed buildings. On either side of us, merchants display racks of ribbons or chests of baubles. Women call out from the street corners, selling white winter roses with blooms the size of my fist. Enormous windows display towers of pastries or gowns in shades I never believed possible, bedecked in feathers and jewels and impeccable embroidery. A sweet-spicy scent permeates the air. Food. Nettle meows, her tail twitching as she catches sight of a rack of roasted turkey legs waiting in a stall a short distance away.
Hunger gnaws at my insides. It’s been weeks since I’ve eaten anything better than scorched grouse or dry rabbit. Still, while I may not comprehend much regarding mortal life, I know about coin. And coin is not something I currently possess. The merchant in the food stall turns away to assist another person. The turkey legs glisten with juice.
“Do you think you can cause a distraction?” I ask Nettle, who blinks at me as though she’d been waiting for me to suggest such a plan.
Giving a last swish of her tail, Nettle trots over and leaps onto the food stall’s counter, then begins batting items onto the ground. The merchant yells and attempts to shoo away my cat, but Nettle deftly evades his attacks, continuing to wreak havoc. Seizing my chance, I rush forward, focus pinned on the closest turkey leg. Just a few more steps and then—
Several bodies slam into mine. I yelp, toppling backward. Pain shoots up my hip as I hit the cobblestones, and I utter a curse as a pack of children stampede around me, laughing.
“Easy there.” A hand grips my elbow.
I instinctively jolt at the contact and wrench my arm free.
“Meant no offense,” the person says. “You looked like you could use the help.”
It’s a woman. She has deep-brown skin and kind hazel eyes. Wisps of her gray hair peek out from her starched cap. And she’s smiling at me—like I’m just another person.
Because that’s what she thinks you are, I tell myself. Don’t make a scene.
“Thank you,” I say to the woman awkwardly as I get to my feet and brush off my clothes.
“Don’t mind them.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the children. “They’re just excited. It’s not often that we get a traveling group of players. Come, how about you watch their show with me?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I have to…”
The rest falls away as I see that the merchant has finally managed to fend Nettle off and is now closing up his stall. So much for a turkey leg.
“Hungry, are you?” The woman laughs knowingly and fishes something out of her pocket. “Here, I brought enough for two.”
She offers me an apple. Fruit is not nearly enough to satisfy my appetite, but my mouth waters at the thought of its tart juice.
“I have no coin,” I tell her.
“None needed.” The woman presses the apple into my hands. “You can pay me with the company.”
I start to object again—I don’t have time to waste—but the woman steers me over to where a group of people are surrounding a wooden platform. Others peel themselves away from their activities to join the crowd. Nettle meows, having returned from her ruined mission, and blinks up at me in what I expect is reproach.
“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling a bit guilty as I bite into the apple. It might not be a turkey leg, but it’s a feast compared to stringy grouse.
At the blast of a horn, my attention returns to the platform. Several people tromp noisily up the steps. Unlike the audience, the party wears bright colors, their clothes cut in unusual fashions. Their faces are caked with paint, reddening their cheeks and darkening their eyebrows.
“Ah, finally.” The woman claps. “My sister saw this group in her village. Says they’re quite good.”
“What are they doing?” I ask.
The woman looks at me like I’ve asked her the color of the sky.
“Have you never seen a pageant before?”
I shake my head and she smiles broadly.
“You’re in for a real treat, then.”
I’d just as soon have another apple, as I’ve already devoured mine. The woman gestures back at the platform, where one of the performers bows with a flourish.
“Long ago,” he begins, spreading his arms in a wide, elegant gesture, “in the time of the old kings, there lived a goddess. Her power was the brightest of lights in the realm. Her kindness, beauty, and wisdom made her known as fairest of them all. Meira.”
A woman, dressed in gold, dances onto the platform to loud applause. The taste of the apple sours in my mouth. I know this story. And it is a lie.
“For years, our realm worshiped Meira and followed her Light.” Other players kneel and bow around the woman representing the false goddess. “But there were those who grew jealous of our goddess and her power. Those who plotted in secret, lying in wait for their chance to strike. The witches.”
He hisses the word, and a storm of jeers ensues as several other performers swarm the stage, red fabric flapping from their shoulders in a mockery of our cloaks. My hackles rise. They’ve no right to wear that color. No right to steal our identity—our lives. But the crowd doesn’t care. They boo and shout and laugh. A few go so far as to throw a shoe or a piece of rotted fruit at the false witches. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from reacting.
“Meira attempted to reason with the covens—to bring them into the Light,” the leader of this farce continues. “But the witches refused to hear her. They desired to rule this realm with their own villainous hands. And so, using their Malum, they wove a spell of deception.”
A spell of…deception? I’ve never heard this part of the story before. I glance around, expecting the audience to be similarly confused, but they’re enraptured, drinking in the man’s words like honey.
“The witches trapped Meira inside their vile enchantment.” The players dressed as witches dance around the false goddess, wrapping her up in black fabric as she writhes and struggles against them. “With the goddess thus imprisoned, the witches turned their Malum upon the first White King, Braxos, blinding him to their wickedness. And their terrible enchantment webbed throughout the entire kingdom—spelling us all—so that none suspected the witches’ treachery.”
Our treachery? My blood roils. I knew that the mortals had turned against us. That the Covens’ War started because the White Kings desired to control us, but this is what the Order is spouting? That our power is Malum? If witches used Malum, how do the mortals explain the years of prosperity during the Age of the Covens? Was it Malum that held back invading armies or mitigated the spread of plague? Covens may carry long memories, but mortals evidently hold none at all. Nettle trills, her tail twitching as she feeds off my energy.
“But during the time of the late King Reginald,” the heretical man continues, “the Order at last awakened. The followers of Meira discovered the truth of the witches and their Malum. Driven by their faith in Meira, they devised a plan to free our goddess from the covens’ clutches. And, at long last, they succeeded. The Order lifted the haze of Malum that ensorcelled the king, guiding him back to the Light.”
Utter nonsense. And how, exactly, did the Order lift this supposed sorcery? With another spell? How convenient that such methods aren’t called magic when the Order is involved. The audience, however, is oblivious to the hypocrisy of this tale. A cheer rises as a man wearing a crown gallops onto the platform, riding a wooden horse.
“Released from the witches’ enchantment, King Reginald vowed to rid the kingdom of the covens and their Malum once and for all,” the narrator calls with a sweeping gesture. “He dragged the leaders of the witches here and executed them for their crimes.”
More cheers as the crimson-cloaked players wilt under the pretend king’s sword. My stomach twists in disgust. The death of those witches was a massacre—just like every other raid carried out in the name of this so-called goddess. These people treat it like a celebration. Like we deserved it.
“At the witches’ deaths, Meira was liberated from her prison of Malum.” The pretend king slices at Meira’s bindings. The scraps of black silk fall away and the player in gold emerges, wide-eyed and beaming. “King Reginald restored our goddess to her rightful position, thus returning the realm to the Light of Meira’s protection.”
The woman representing the false goddess extends her arms. Beams of light burst from her palms, earning delighted gasps and cheers from the audience. But it’s not magic. It’s just a trick. A farce, like everything else in this Spirits’ forsaken realm.
I’m about to turn away, put myself as far from this atrocity as possible, when the pretend witches toss several small objects into the crowd. One of them lands a short distance away and I maneuver through the audience to see what it is. A stone, I realize. A roughhewn, oval shape, glinting red in the sunlight. Is that intended to be a Bloodstone?
“Watch out!” someone yells.
I don’t see the horse until it’s practically on top of me. The beast whinnies, front legs rearing back and exposing the broad expanse of its belly. I scramble away just before its enormous hooves, which are roughly the size of my face, squash my head like a grape. The stone, however, is not as lucky. It’s crushed beneath the horse’s foot, red shards spinning in every direction. I pluck one of the glittering pieces from the cobblestones. It’s only dyed glass, a cheap replica, as fragile and hollow as the players’ story. Fury flashes in my veins. The mortals take our sacred relics, our history, and turn them into baubles and trinkets for their own perverse amusement. I clench my fist around the bit of false stone so hard that the edge cuts into my palm and my own blood trickles down my wrist.
“Are you all right?” The woman from before hurries over. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly as she helps me to stand, hiding my hand in my skirt and cursing myself for being careless. The cut will heal faster than anyone can tend it.
Others begin to congregate around us, whispering. It reminds me enough of the night of my Ascension that panic beats behind my eardrums. I’m too exposed out here. What if they guess what I am? Where is Nettle? I search the crowd, but my cat has vanished.
“Fine? That horse nearly smashed your head like a pumpkin. You’re lucky to be alive. Where are your people? Did you—” She stops, noticing my uniform. “Oh, you’re a Sister. And you look a fright. Of course you do, lost little thing. Come with me. I’ll get you to the Sanctum.”
I don’t want to go to the Sanctum. “I can find my own way, thank you.”
“Nonsense.” The woman drapes her arm around my shoulder and steers me down another street. “What kind of Follower would I be if I didn’t offer aid to a Sister in distress?”
The only distress I’m experiencing is from being prevented from getting to the palace. But I don’t need to make more of a scene, especially with so many others watching. The woman leads me around another corner and a shadow falls over us. My breath halts—the Sanctum.
Even having lived as a Sister at Stonehaven for the last seven years, I’m unprepared for the sight of this place. It must be several times the size of Stonehaven, and impossibly tall. Five huge, square towers climb into the sky, birds wheeling above them. Unlike Stonehaven and most other Sanctums, which were built to honor a single Ancient, the White City’s Sanctum was dedicated to all Five. But any trace of those witches has been eradicated. Instead, dozens of Eyes glare at me from where they’re molded into the stone or set into the rich colors of an enormous circular stained-glass window. Small figurines of the false goddess line the arching eaves and others are carved into walls. There must be hundreds of them, their faces tilted downward like they’re observing my approach.
“No, this is no trouble at all,” the woman prattles on as she herds me up the wide steps. I can hardly feel my feet touch the stone. “And you must be exhausted from your journey. The Sanctress will get you a bath and a hot meal.”
A hot meal. The words alone are like a spell, fighting through the haze of my stupor. My stomach growls, the apple already forgotten. Where else might I get a full meal? Certainly not from the merchants. And I haven’t had a bath since I left Stonehaven. I’d probably have a bed inside the Sanctum as well. My whole body aches at the thought of sleeping on a mattress instead of the ground. Even so—I glance over my shoulder at the White Palace, towering on its mountain in the distance. That place might as well be a whole world away. And what if I get caught here? The doors to the Sanctum loom like the jaws of a waiting beast.
They’ll see right through you, that voice says.
Before I can land on a decision, the woman swings the large bronze knocker on the Sanctum door. A few moments later, hinges squeal as the massive thing opens, revealing a figure standing on the other side. For a heartbeat, given her Sanctress robes, I almost mistake the person for Mother. This Sanctress is older, though, with dark eyes and silver hair tucked into her cap.
“I found this poor thing in the street,” the woman who helped me explains, clicking her tongue. “She nearly got herself trampled by a carriage.”
The Sanctress sweeps an appraising look over me. “You’re not one of mine. Are you here for Longest Night?”
I pause. This is my last chance to escape. I could bolt down the steps and never look back. But where would I go? And where is Nettle? The sounds of the city float around me—wheels against cobblestones and shouting. I’m so hungry. I’ve nowhere to hide and no idea how to get into the palace. Perhaps it’s not a bad idea to take some rest. A day or two at the most. After all, I’ve lived nearly a decade pretending to be a Sister. I can go a while longer. And Nettle, wherever she is, can fend for herself for a time.
“Yes,” I say, banishing my doubts. “To receive the High Priest’s blessing.”
The Sanctress smiles, but I’m not sure if it’s entirely friendly. “Another. Wonderful.”
“It’s so nice to see such devotion to the Light, is it not?” the woman asks.
“Indeed,” the Sanctress agrees. “And thank you for your service in escorting her here. I’ll take care of her.”
She beckons for me to step inside.
The woman gives me a last pat. “Blessings for the season.”
Blessings, indeed. I throw one last look at the White City and the palace beyond, and then trudge inside.
As soon as the heavy oaken door closes behind me, I realize that I’ve made a mistake. Stonehaven might bear the trappings of the false goddess, but it’s nothing like this Sanctum. Gone is the low hum of magic, a faint pulse of witchcraft. The seemingly endless stone halls are cold and lifeless. The vaulted ceiling is too high, causing our every footstep to echo, eerie and haunting. Meira’s Eyes appear almost alive as they stare at me from the eaves and alcoves—and there are dozens more of them here than at Stonehaven. I imagine the witches who used to walk these corridors—the runes and shrines that were pried out and replaced—and a heady mix of sadness and anger churns in my gut. This place was built to honor the covens, and now it serves to glorify those who hunt us. I rub the triangles etched below my ring fingers.
Just a day or two, I tell myself. Get a few meals, fresh clothes, and leave.
“The dining hall and chantry are that way,” the Sanctress says as she points down the east wing. Dust motes glimmer in the dull sunlight filtering through the arched windows. “Prayers are before breakfast. We greet the dawn with our goddess.”
A line of young women passes us on the other side of the hall, their hands folded in front of them and their eyes downcast. I mimic their posture, attempting to blend in.
“The washroom is up ahead. Usually, baths are before prayers, but you’ll take one immediately, given your circumstances.” Her nose wrinkles. I probably do smell. “But I should warn you. As I’m sure was evident during your brief excursion in the city, some Followers hold to the misconception that Longest Night is a time of celebration and frivolity. An excuse to let darkness into their lives, as before the Age of the Light. They’re wrong. This season is a time of penitence and reflection. We hold to the Light. Just like Meira herself.”
The Sanctress’s robes whisper against the floor as we pass a small statue of the false goddess, her motto engraved into the alcove behind her: Fairest of Them All.
“I understand,” I say, gritting my teeth against the effigy.
“Good.” The Sanctress directs us down another corridor. “In the meantime, clean yourself up and I’ll get you a fresh uniform. This will be your room.”
The Sanctress pauses at a row of doors and opens one of them, revealing a chamber about the same size as my own room at Stonehaven. But it’s not mine. Everything here is sparse and drab. My chest tightens, missing the quilt Nyssandra stitched for me and the pieces of the forest I collected over the years—jewel-toned autumn leaves and interesting rocks. Will I ever see that place, or my home, again?
