Page 2 of The Half King
Which path will it choose?
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t See the snake in her mind’s eye. The kit sent up a series of screams—death cries—as the serpent poked its head through the third lowest hole and drew back to strike.
Cerise plunged her hand into the cage at the exact moment the snake lunged forward. A pair of needle-sharp fangs sank into her forearm, and then came a pain so acute there wasn’t a name for it. She screamed from the pits of her lungs without a care for her reputation as a lady of the temple. Let the goddess Shiera take her—death would be a mercy. Fire boiled the blood inside her veins. The scent of charred flesh filled her nostrils. She expected her sleeve to erupt into flames, but instead of bursting outward, the heat compounded from within, doubling in intensity until spots danced in her vision.
The next thing she knew, the Reverend Mother was at her side, using her power as a healer to draw out the venom. Blood flowed from the wounds in a thin stream that fell to the ground and congealed there in a burgundy pool. Beside the bloody pool lay the snake, either coiled in slumber or dead. She couldn’t tell which. The venom left her veins, taking the fire with it, but even after the pain receded, she sobbed into her sleeve.
“Control yourself,” chided the Reverend Mother. She sat back on her heels and shook her head. “Well, I certainly did not foreseethat. Once again, you have confounded me. I don’t know what to do with you.”
“I tried, Your Grace. I promise—” Cerise cut off with a hitched breath, although there wasn’t more to say. They both knew the truth and—more importantly—what it meant. Priests were the sole wielders of magic. Seers were oracles, foretelling paths to the future. A handful of exceptional Seers, like the Reverend Mother, also possessed the gift of healing. But Cerise’s only gift was the ability to bewilder her mentors.
The Reverend Mother turned her attention to the stony ground and used her healing energy to separate the venom from the blood. The mass split into two liquid orbs, one yellow, the other red, until the venom formed a pearl of pure toxin. Blood was free, but poison was too precious to waste, especially when rumors buzzed of impending war. The toxin would be crafted into a weapon and stored for defense.
“Do not be discouraged,” the Reverend Mother said in a voice devoid of hope. “We still have time.”
Three moons. That was how much time Cerise had until she turned twenty and celebrated her Claiming Day, the final occasion upon which her gifts—assuming she had any—would manifest. If she didn’t receive the Sight by then, she never would. It was the same for all second-born children given in service to the goddess. But in the nineteen years Cerise had lived at the temple, she had never met a Seer or a priest who had waited so long to receive a gift. In all likelihood, she didn’t possess one, and then what was she meant to do? There weren’t many options for ladies of noble birth, and as a second-born, she was forbidden to marry. The temple would keep her on, but only as a serving maid. She shuddered when she imagined what that would look like—cooking and cleaning for each new class of oracles, fading with age while they stayed perpetually young and full of promise.
Time would forget her. She might even forget herself.
The faint clicking of shoes sounded from the northern temple entrance, where a manservant strode toward them. As he crossed the courtyard, Cerise studied his clothes, which were simple and gray to match his station as a giftless second-born. Had the man dreamed of becoming a priest? Had he fantasized about changing the world with his magic? And had he been as heartbroken on his Claiming Day as she was bound to be on hers?
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to the Reverend Mother. “The Solon family is waiting for your student in the visitors’ chamber.”
Cerise blinked in surprise. What were her parents doing here? They had already visited her once during the last lunar cycle. She hadn’t expected them to return until her Claiming Day.
“Show them into the garden room and offer them a tray of refreshments.” The Reverend Mother lifted a hand to indicate Cerise’s bloodstained dress. “Their daughter will join them once she has made herself presentable.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And remove this”—pointing at the flamewinder venom—“to the arsenal, and this”—indicating the blood—“to the sacrificial altar.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
After the manservant filled two vials and carried them away, Cerise risked a glance at the Reverend Mother. “What will you tell them?”
“The truth, Cerise. Which I’m sure they would prefer hearing from you.”
That wasn’t the case. The last thing her parents wanted was the truth.
“Now go and change your dress,” the Reverend Mother said as she placed something warm and soft into Cerise’s hands. It was the rabbit kit, which had grown still—toostill. “Calm yourself,” the Reverend Mother added with a sharp glance. “The creature is alive. Its heart was strained during the ordeal. Return it to the hutch, where it can rest.”
Cerise stroked the kit’s long ears. “Will it survive, Your Grace?”
Instead of answering, the Reverend Mother regarded a droplet of blood on a stone paver near the cage. She scrubbed the spot clean with the toe of her shoe and repeated, “Go and change your dress.”
2
Cerise descended the marble staircase from her quarters on the second floor, having donned a fresh gown and scrubbed her face and arms until they glowed. She brushed a hand over her pleated skirts, and as she did so, she admired the subtle shift in tone from stark white at the bodice to midnight black at the hem. The shades blended so seamlessly that she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. Like all of her clothing, the gown reflected her status as a Seer in training—less elaborate than the Reverend Mother’s gilded robes but finer than the gray linen of a servant. The satiny fabric was as smooth as glass and rustled when she moved, but mostly she loved what the shades represented: the balance between darkness and light, like the goddess Shiera herself.
Cerise dreaded the day when she would have to surrender it.
When she reached the atrium at the base of the steps, she glanced left toward the garden room and caught herself clenching her shoulders. She practiced her calming exercises, one slow breath after another, and while her muscles unwound, she turned her gaze to the domed ceiling, where murals painted in animated oils acted out the history of her people.
The first scene depicted Shiera crafting four land masses and setting the world in motion around the sun. Those four lands—Calatris, Mortara, Solon, and Petros—bore all known life, each ruled by a dynasty of corresponding name. As for Shiera, no one knew her true form. Her only visit to the world of men had been a thousand years ago during the Great Betrayal, and accounts from that time varied widely. Here, she was depicted as a fierce beauty, her limbs battle-strong and her face divided into equal halves: one beaming with mercy, the other contorted in wrath. That was how Cerise liked to picture the goddess, though the dark half would give her chills if she looked at it for too long.
A shiver passed through her, and she turned away.
She swept across the atrium toward the adjoining garden room. The sweet scent of moon blossoms greeted her before she reached the doorway. Once inside, she pushed through a wall of humidity to find her parents seated on a velvet divan, teacups in hand, their brunette heads—nearly identical in shade to her own—tipped close in conversation. They looked up, and she offered a tentative grin.
