My feet ached by the time I reached the eastern gate and joined the queue waiting to be granted access to the upper levels for their duties of servitude. The guards at the base of the stairs that led up to the Second Ring were stoic and solemn faced as they checked the identification of each Lower Ringer seeking access to the unrestricted luxury above.
“Name?” the guard grunted as I approached.
“Adrian Bexley, Third Ringer, for House Valin.”
He glanced down at the book in his hands, eyes scanning it in a bored fashion.
“Move along.”
I shuffled on, allowing myself to be herded into the Second Ring with the rest of those deemed tolerable enough to serve the elite. Looking around at the night’s crowd, I spotted a Decker wiping his nose with the front of his shirt, adding to an already impressive grouping of smudges and stains. Either the party was set to be substantial or more Third Ringers than I had expected had decided to take the night off in preparation for what was coming in the morning.
Sanctuary was a walled city divided into three concentric circles known as the Rings which towered over a twelve-sided field derisively referred to as the Deck. Littered across the Deck were the hastily constructed and increasingly precarioushomes of Sanctuary’s poorest inhabitants. As societal outcasts, the Deckers grouped together in small communities, subsisting on the mercies of the church and the humanitarian inclinations of any Upper Ringer that dared to venture so far down. They spent most of their days begging for work and doing their best to survive when they couldn’t get it.
Directly above the Deck was my ring, the Third Ring. As the most populous region of Sanctuary by far, we pitied the Deckers from a distance even though we weren’t much better off. As Third Ringers, we had one distinct advantage: proximity. Living closer to the upper rings meant that the wealthy didn’t have to stoop so far to compensate us for our labors. Instead, we received food and occasional luxuries that could be traded in the markets in exchange for our efforts. Working when we could and starving when we couldn’t made life difficult but not unbearable. At least it wasn’t a constant fight for survival like on the Deck.
The Second Ring, rising from the center of my own, encompassed the residences of the five minor houses and some others that had been lucky enough to advance that far. It was the ring that gave out the most work and housed the residence of my employer, the House of Valin.
Bathing all of us in its shadow, however, was the First Ring. Whether its construction was a pious attempt at communion with the gods or a defiant specimen of human achievement, I didn’t know. A towering monument of gleaming white marble which doubled as a temple in its center, the First Ring contained only the three original major houses, their descendants, and the order of the priesthood. Only the best served there. I’d never been there myself, but I’d heard rumors they sometimes hired Second Ringers.
Making my way deeper into the Second Ring, I turned right, stepping carefully on the cobbled roads. As I passed, I couldn’t help but admire the rows of immaculate estates carved intothe stone of the ring itself. The ornate slate marble structures erected millennia ago to accommodate the minor houses were a marvel, no matter how many times I passed them.
First came the House of Harlowe which stretched three times farther than any of the others. The newer houses mimicked its design, though smaller and built using brick instead of marble. Rumors claimed its mass was due to the amount of books held within. Veritable libraries full of forgotten knowledge and ancient secrets dating back to the founding of Sanctuary. Libraries that Saint Harlowe’s descendants had kept to themselves over the years, if they were even real. Not that it mattered. Reading was a luxury afforded only to the wealthy.
I smelled the House of Chasina before I saw it. A cloying sweetness, beautifully overwhelming and intoxicating as it drifted down the streets, though not quite masking the sour odors of the sweat-laden laborers toiling in its various gardens. The estate was adorned with hanging trellises, hundreds of feet of slate marble buried beneath an avalanche of roses and lilies, the stunning byproduct of years of botanical expertise. And in the center of the courtyard was the statue of Saint Chasina. Enrobed in a living cloak of lavender and perched on the side of a rippling fountain, one delicate fingertip brushing the surface of the water.
I quickly passed the House of Alosia, their sweet saint preserved in finely crafted gold, head bowed in reverent prayer. The House of Rainier sat right next door. Great bronze swords arranged in a line served as their gate and, on either end, a dark iron likeness of their hero.
Finally, I reached the end of my journey, The House of Valin’s enormous thirty-foot-tall statue of their namesake rising to meet me. The ancient hero brandished a sword pointed toward the heavens as if in challenge.
I came to an abrupt stop just short of the main courtyard, moving instinctively toward the servants’ entrance as a cacophony of laughter and conversation rolled down the street behind me in sweeping waves. A crowd had already gathered between the eastern and southern gates. Dressed in their best pressed suits and cocktail dresses, the guests stumbled and swayed as they made their way toward the house.
I was already late, which would undoubtedly earn me a justified scolding. Even so, I couldn’t keep myself from watching as the doors to the grand estate swung open and Cyrus emerged, heir to the House of Valin.
Hands in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot, he waited to greet his guests. Cyrus welcomed them all with flattery befitting their station. Inevitably, they would all toss their heads back, laughing, and he would grin that stupid dimpled smile that made him the heartthrob of the Second Ring.
I had no reason to hate Cyrus. After all, without his intervention, I would never have convinced his father to hire me. But buried beneath the perfection and charm was the carefree attitude of a Second Ringer who had never known what it was to struggle, to suffer. He bore a sense of entitlement and privilege that no Third Ringer could accept. Besides, it was too easy to despise someone so perfect.
“Not sure what they have to celebrate,” I muttered with crossed arms as I glimpsed a familiar face appear out of the corner of my eye. I turned to find my close friend Sophie Lytton staring at the heir to the House of Valin. “The Trials are only a week away, sure. But the Culling is tomorrow.”
“Always a ray of sunshine, Adrian.” Sophie grinned my way and we turned back to the crowd awaiting entry to the party just as Dahlia arrived.
Captivating was the only word I could use to describe Darius’s older sister. She stood on her tiptoes, even though she didn’thave to, to kiss Cyrus on the cheek. They exchanged lovesick glances, the matching red bars tattooed on their foreheads twinkling in the light of the glamorous affair. That symbol was a reminder of the bond between them, of the commitment they had each made. It was a sign they’d taken their Oaths and joined the Trials. He squeezed her hand and smiled but released her as she walked away and entered the party, the skirts of her short violet dress shifting back and forth with the swaying of her hips.
“An opportunity to serve the Geist,” I continued with a scoff, defining the Culling as the wealthy had parroted it to us for centuries. “As if we don’t serve them enough with the Trials and the rest of these godsforsaken holy ceremonies.”
Sophie’s eyes darted behind me to the other servants making their way around the back of the house to the kitchens. To speak of the Culling wasn’t strictly forbidden but my flippant invocation of the taboo probably wasn’t wise, particularly here. Among the upper rings, they celebrated the Culling with ritualistic reverence, sold it to the masses as a means for those in Sanctuary to serve their gods, the vacant deities known as the Geist. But below the Second Ring, we saw the Culling for what it was: the brutal and irreverent slaughter of the ones we loved.
Over the generations, our collective superstitions had developed into a series of pseudo-ritualistic practices, the foremost of which was never to speak of the Culling. It was nonsense, of course. A soothing lie for the terrified soul seeking the strength to persevere. Still, we preferred not to mention it if we didn’t have to. But I had never shied from heresy, a fact which Maurice had always declared would get me killed one day. I knew it made my loved ones nervous each time I spoke such blasphemy aloud but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t buy into their line of bullshit and I wouldn’t pretend I did. Not around people who cared about me.
“At least we’re safe from them.” Sophie shrugged. “This year, anyway.”
I suppressed a shudder and bit the inside of my cheek as I pushed past her and headed for the gnarled wooden door covered in untrimmed vines, so unlike the gleaming gold frames welcoming the elite to their celebrations.
“Warren’s not,” I muttered.
“Oh shit,” Sophie hissed as we moved through the servants’ doors and entered the busy kitchen. “I didn’t think about Warren.”
“He’s twenty-five,” I said, taking care to keep my voice measured and calm. “He didn’t do badly in the Trials. Not as good as Dahlia. Not enough to move us up. But enough to make him a prime candidate for the Culling.”
