To my elation, a few droplets gather against my fingertips, and I roll the thick beads between my thumb and fingers, finding comfort in its presence, no matter how little the amount, no matter how thick and gunky it seems.
All of my concentration is on my gold, gathering painfully slow drops. I’m hoping the Matrons are taking me back to my room or to continue their gods-awful rituals somewhere else, something to give me more time to gather myself and my power.
But instead, we veer further outside, down the tiled path that’s patched with intermittent shadows cast off from the plants, while an unbroken cacophony of cicadas buzzes through the air. Sweat starts gathering at the back of my neck as I’m herded, my frizzy strands of wet hair sticking to my skin, my cinched sleeves dampened at my wrists.
My feet are on fire. The only saving grace is that the stickiness of the oil has made the fine sand stick to them, giving the only protective layer I have. I try to focus my magic to my soles next, urging the gold to coat the undersides. Yet I can’t get a thick enough layer to do much, though I hope I’m leaving stained footprints behind me to taint their way.
The queen apparently gets bored with my suffering in silence, because she releases the pinch on my heart and changes it until it feels like something has latched onto my spine and dug in its nails, tipped ends pressing sharply into me.
This time, I have no choice but to whimper, back arched slightly, feet faltering. I’m pushed from behind, urged incessantly forward, while every step makes my spine bite and needle.
I know the queen is behind me, watching my every move, probably getting some sick satisfaction from the noise I made. I transfer the small ball of gold from my left hand and add it to the collection in my right, and while it’s only the size of a blueberry, it’ssomething.
But with all my concentration focused on enduring the pain and keeping my small clump safe in my hand, I realize belatedly that I’m not walking on sandy tiles anymore. I’m walking on clay stairs, and the noise I’m hearing isn’t just cicadas anymore.
It’s people.
A lotof people.
I look behind me, seeing the single-level castle draped across the feather-soft sand dunes and blended with a bounty of vegetation hugged around the sparkling water of an oasis.
But before me, down this steep outdoor staircase, is a sprawling metropolis. Far off in the horizon, I can see just a sliver of the sea. It streaks across the edge, separating the land and sky. All the way from here to there, there are blocks of flat-roofed buildings spread out in such a vast collection that I can’t even fathom how many people must live here.
The buildings are the same color as the sand they’re surrounded by, yet with pops of bright yellow and blue paint. The streets look like copper rivers woven through, and there are flags with their yellow sun emblem, as well as the official sigil of Second Kingdom—two concentric circles, one inside another, representing the great Divine overlapping all of life.
But the building nearest us, the one this path leads to, is surrounded by a sea of people collected beneath giant canvases stretched between pillars. Just in front is a circular building, and from my vantage point up here, I can see a short wall that circles around it all, its joined architecture clearly reminiscent of the kingdom’s sigil.
I can’t go a single step now without grimacing and hissing out breath. The oil and sand is no match for the brutal heat of the sunbaked tiles. I can’t even rush, because the Matrons are setting the pace, and they either don’t care about my feet or it’s all part of my burning walk of shame.
By the time I make it to the bottom steps, I don’t even care about the people who are staring and shouting incomprehensible words. It feels as if layers of skin have scalded right off my feet, leaving them raw and agonizing, as if I’ve been walking over a mile of fiery coals.
And the queen’s pain continues. Steady. Punishing. So constant that I can’t take in a full breath, my heart feeling like it can’t complete a full beat.
I’m sweating buckets. Everything inside of me shakes and reverberates with echoing agony that’s sapped all my strength as I’m led down a narrow path. The bodies of the Matrons close in on me as we get closer to the building. I can see a sea of people gathered, shouting, hands in the air as if this is some kind of frenzied event.
Then I’m led up the charring steps of the domed building. When I get to the top, the women part like waves, and I see I’m on some kind of outdoor stage. The building is at my back and the canvas-covered city square in front, so full of people that I can’t even see the ends of the crowd. They’re not wasting any time. There will be no waiting in my room, no other ritualistic Cleansing.
This is it.
I’m shoved inside a circle of thin pillars on the stage, and as soon as I am, the queen’s magic is suddenly removed. In their haste to shove me inside, my shoulder and arm smack against the poles, and the gold ball drops from my hand. I don’t dare draw attention to it though.
I can’t enjoy the release of the queen’s pinched pain, because I’m trapped. Trapped and on display, reeling from pain and forcing myself not to pass out.
I try to shake the poles that surround me, but they don’t move a bit, and I’m far too weakened anyway. They stretch up at least ten feet, and they’re no thicker than my wrist, leaving the same measure of gap between them. The space inside the enclosure is a small circle, the same pillared door slammed shut at my back. The only relief I have is the fact that I’m in the shade now from the building’s overhang, so the tile floor of the stage is blessedly cool against my scorched feet.
But then I look up and see the seven chairs set just beyond me, facing both the crowd and my enclosure, all filled with the monarchs of Orea.
They must be in order, from First to Sixth Kingdom.
The chair for Fourth is noticeably empty.
At the end, in First Kingdom’s chair, sits King Euden Thold, a man with dark skin and a serpent crown on his head that glitters with gems of green and black. The moment I see him, I remember his power, because it’s wrapped all over him, tame under his control. There’s a viper draped around his shoulders. A cobra coiling the length of his arm. Another snake with a rattle at his ankle, and a bright green snake looped in his lap.
As if she’s not bothered in the slightest by their serpentine presence, Queen Isolte sits poised beside him, while another man who must be her mustached and blotchy-faced husband sits at her other side. King Neale Merewen.
And to the right ofhimsits Queen Kaila.
My stomach twists like I’ve grabbed it with two fists and wrung it out like a rag. Beside her is the empty chair meant for Slade, which makes my stomach twist in an entirely different way.
