It’s almost time to leave for the dance, but I find myself wandering the palace. There’s a place I want to visit. I pass by halls and décor that’s finer than anything I knew before I came here. I wind my way toward the back of the palace, windows facing the tombs that are almost as big as the palace themselves. I continue my journey, trying not to think of death. There’s been enough of that in my life as it is. When I arrive at the chalice room, I tell my guards to wait outside.
“I should come with you,” Wilric says.
“I’ll be fine.”
He purses his lips. “At least let me check out the room.”
“Very well.”
It takes him several minutes, but eventually he returns, proclaiming it free from threats.
The room is cold and dim in the drawing day with no torches lit. I’m an eerie presence in the mirrors surrounding the room. Like a ghost.
And perhaps I am a ghost of the person I was before, transformed into some new being that even I don’t understand yet.
There’s no sound as I slip through the room. It’s so different than the first time I came running in. Thoughts and feelings rush through me. Panic me. I shake my head.
I am not the person I was then.
Doesn’t stop the memories from coming.
I shove them away as best I can and make my way to the chalice. It sits on the pedestal, almost glowing. Maybe it is. I don’t understand the magic contained within it.
And yet, I keep drinking it.
Thoughts try to flood me, but I don’t dare acknowledge them. Instead, I run my fingers across the names chiseled onto the pillar. They automatically appear when someone dies from drinking the Mortum Tura. The names are tiny, filling all sides of the chest-high pillar. There must be thousands upon thousands of names here.
So many women died. Had their life taken from them because they wanted to be queen. How many of them were desired to rule and to do good for their country? Not all, I’m certain, but it stands to reason that many on this list would have done a good job.
I know the First Queen said this was the only way to make it work, but it is barbaric.
Besides, how many queens have taken this country to ruin? I remember someone once saying all queens turn out cruel. That the power gets to them, and they become hungry for it—eager for a way to get what they want instead of what’s best for the people.
What power does the Mortum Tura hold that prevents the queens who’ve been crowned from turning? The First Queen’s presence feels near. I wish I could ask her more about it—thoughts that I didn’t think on previously, things that should have crossed my mind. I should, tonight.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I grab the chalice and guzzle the Mortum Tura until it’s two thirds of the way gone. I slam it back down on its pedestal. It tastes so good. Like sweetness and power.
But I never wanted power.
Even now, I’d gladly trade it to someone else, but not if it meant my death. Which it will, and there’s no guarantee that the new queen will want to take care this country. Queen Deedra was example enough of that.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, trying not to think about the power pulsing through my veins and ignoring the fact that all the mirrors around me are lighting up with the glow of the Mortum Tura.
The magic coursing through me is almost like a living thing. What can I do with it? Is there something that could help me or my people? There has to be some use to all this magic, or there’s no point in continuing to drink it.
The First Queen should know. I add that to my list of questions. Then again, maybe I should be looking myself. Using my resources. The library will have information on magic. Books that can help me understand it better. If I can understand it, perhaps I can help the people understand it better too.
A noise comes from behind me. I whirl around, draw my daggers, and press them against the neck of the woman behind me. A guard stands next to her.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I ask.
Her voice shakes. “I was sent for the chalice, for the country dance.”
I withdraw my blades, pretending like her startling me was nothing. “Of course. Take it.”
She curtsies before taking the chalice and setting it on a serving board she held. Without looking at me, she hurries from the room.
I glance back at the pedestal, with all those names carved on it. Women who shouldn’t be forgotten, yet most are probably no more than a name carved on the stone.
I will remember them.