Orteslux, I ask for this blessing: When I die, do not guide my soul beyond the veil. Leave me here and let me haunt.
Skyla Eichfeld, Cygnus Valedictorian of Scientia 1608
Standing at the mouth of the grand staircase that descends into the ballroom, Claudia can tell that everyone below is high on their own heart. All eyes are shiny and wide like big black buttons. Red light spills from every corner as if weeping from fresh wounds. Students rub arms as they fight through the packed crowd to get to the nectar—cherry wine, courtesy of the Scientia students who know how to take advantage of a lush greenhouse. There are long tables flanking the walls, filledwith bright fruits, crusty bread, marbled meats, and meticulously decorated cakes.
Claudia can no longer think in words. She can only feel in colors. Her brain is a big blur of vivid emotion. Right now, she is Green. Green is energetic and possessive and excited and new and weird and BRIGHT.
She clings to Cassius as they stroll down the white marble steps, each like a row of teeth, into the belly of the room. Alistair and Angel are in the corner, whispering between kisses. Claudia’s glad to see their date going so well.
Her date is going well, too.
Cassius leads them to a table of refreshments and pours them each a silver chalice of wine. Claudia shoves a small cake (or three) into her mouth and washes it down with the cherry nectar. It tastes Purple. It makes her feel royal and powerful and maybe a little bitter. When she looks around the room, it’s as if all those button-eyes are following her. Why does everyone stare at her all the time?
“Feeling good?” Cassius asks, leaning down.
She takes another long sip of wine. On the cusp of her swallow, she says, “Good and high.”
He laughs. “Me, too.” They lean on each other. She wants to tell him how she really feels—not just good, but perfect. Not just happy, but elated. Not just lustful, but viscerally ravenous for touch. She wants to tell him that if she could, she’d burrow into his skin like a parasite and live there forever.
But there’s no normal way to say that to another person without sounding completely mad.
Maybe she is mad.
Maybe he likes that about her.
Eventually, with her ear pressed to his chest so that his heartbeat adds percussion to the evening, she asks, “How long does it last?”
“A few hours.” His voice is Blue, each word a calming,cerulean cloud. She wants him to speak directly into her mouth so she can breathe it in. “It’ll still linger once the party is over,” he says.
“Good.” This will make for a very exciting evening once they return to his room.
A man in a white mask and black robes comes around holding an oenochoe filled with small scraps of paper. Following Cassius’s lead, Claudia picks one up and notices that it’s blank. She peers into the bowl—all of them, blank.
“What’s this for?” she asks the man in the mask, but he’s already turned his back.
“The game,” Cassius says. “We always play our own version of the opera. Keep an eye on the paper; our roles will appear there momentarily once Dolericym decides who should play what.”
Her eyes go wide. “We’re not going to be singing, right? I can’t sing.”
He laughs and squeezes her shoulder. “No singing. It’s a caricature of the performance—not a performance in itself.”
Once each reveler has a slip of paper in their hands, the man in the mask ascends the stairs and bellows, “Evening, Cygni!”
“Cygni!” the room shouts back, raising their chalices.
“Tonight, I am your game master. Welcome to the Deer and the Daughter. Soon, Dolericym will reveal the role that each of you will play in our little game of life and death.” His voice sounds familiar. He must be another Rhetoric student. Benjamin, maybe. From his sleeve, he pulls out four ribbons—red, green, gold, and white. “Some of you will be Agamemnons. You’ll tie a red ribbon around your throat. Others, Artemises—your ribbons will be green. Sacred stags, your ribbons will be gold. And there will be only one Iphigenia, with one white ribbon bowed around her neck. Once you pull someone’s ribbon, you must immediately return it here before venturing back into the game. If your ribbon is pulled, you are out. We’re all here to kill each other. That is how this ends. But there are rules. Agamemnons can kill Iphigeniaand sacred stags, but they cannot kill one another, nor can they kill Artemises. Artemises can kill Agamemnons and Iphigenia, but they cannot kill their stags or one another. The stags can kill one another and Agamemnons, but they cannot harm their goddesses or Iphigenia. And Iphigenia, our dear daughter—not to be confused withdeerdaughter”—he mimics antlers with his hands and pauses for the laughs—“can kill anyone she wants, so long as they do not kill her first. The game can end in three ways: when Iphigenia is slain, when one of the three groups is entirely slain, or when Iphigenia has slaughtered a king, a stag, and a goddess.”
“Poor Iphigenia,” Claudia whispers. “There’s only one of her and everyone wants her dead.”
“Actually, her role bears the easiest route to victory,” Cassius says. “She can run and hide out there while the others will slaughter themselves trying to reach her. They’ll be so tired from fighting one another that they’ll be no match for her.”
“I think it’ll prove to be harder than that. These are the best and brightest minds of the whole world. They won’t be bested by a girl playing hide-and-seek. She’ll have to be cleverer than that.”
“I’m sure she will be.”
“You speak as if you’ve played this exact game before.”
“Marcherie may have given me a warning of what it would be.”
