One of the women wept so hard she could barely hold onto her cup.
The third…
…was aboy, not more than twenty. Eyes like flint. He stared straight ahead and before I could do anything, he’d lifted and drank the wine like it was water on a hot day.
My throat burned, and my magic stirred, restless. Angry.
The cup slipped from his fingers, fell to the ground, and rolled to a stop. A trail of liquid slithered from its rim, swirling away from his fallen body.
I could not breathe.
One of the elders looked up at me, his face wreathed with concern. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted like rust.
The crowd cheered.
And I watched the last of the liquid from the man’s cup seep between the cobblestones.
Too many of my precious people tumbled to the ground.
Their arms lifted toward the sky, the elders chanted, blessing those condemned as they faced the fates.
My throat closed off. I could not breathe behind the mask. I lifted my hands to wrench it off. I’d throw it into the crowd and let loose. A spark of fire on a cold morning would be nothing compared to what I would do now.
“Their sacrifice ensures your children will grow up in a safe realm,” Father said. “Their spirits will rise brighter in the next life.”
Was that true? I’d tried to believe it, believe him when he said this was the only merciful way to ensure our people remained safe. But why hadn’tIgone mad yet? I’d felt the magic, the insidious, treacherous thing, since I was tiny. If madness was inevitable, why was I still me?
Madness was supposed to come gradually, then all at once. Was this the beginning of my end? The magic and my conscience were both fighting to break free from years of containment. Perhaps madness wasn’t what awaited those with magic. Perhaps it was what happened when you denied your true nature for too long.
When I was five, I threw a tantrum in the garden because Mother wouldn’t give me sweets before dinner. Rosebushes withered around me, their petals browning and dropping as my screams peaked.
Mother caught my face, her own a stark mask of fear. “Amarissa. Stop! Do not do this.Neverlet them see, sweet one. Never. Especially your father. Promise me.”
I’d promised. And I was still promising, with every breath and every day.
I swallowed hard, pushing away my rising nausea.
A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, drizzling down my face behind the mask. I remained standing, perfectly composed, perfectly dutiful.
The realm’s Lady of Mercy, who could not offer enough to her own people.
When the ceremony was finished, the elders stopped chanting. The bodies were wrapped in blue cloth and carried away for the funeral pyre. The crowd’s silence gave way to a collective exhalation, the unspoken relief of those who’d witnessed death but been spared its touch themselves.
“And now,” Father called out, his voice full of strength and satisfaction, “we’ll honor those whose vigilance protects us all.”
I stiffened. This part was new, added in the years since Mother died. The Gratitude Ceremony, where those who reported magic users were publicly rewarded.
He gestured, and a line of people stepped forward, neighbors who’d reported those living among them, colleagues who’d exposed those they knew well. Even some who’d turned in their parent or sibling.
Like Mae’s mother, who’d reported her own grandchild.
Golden medallions were distributed, along with purses of coins.
“These brave souls have made the difficult choice to put the greater good above personal loyalty,” Father said as he moved among them, draping medals strung on bright ribbons around their necks. “They have ensured our children will grow in a world free from the taint of magic.”
Cheers rang out from the crowd.
