Chapter 1: Mavis
Covent Garden had always been a court of smiles, tinkling coins and of course, magic, except when it was a time of trials. The market is buzzing with activity when I arrive to do my shopping, like some sleepless beehive where one can get honeysuckle or sting darts. At the fruits’ vendor, I get blackberries for Mom’s special pie. Further down the stalls, shiny scarlet apples catch my eye, Kai would love these. I look through my purse: only a few coins and some sweets my brother sneaked in there. I suppose Kai will have to wait until I earn more money. As I head for the stairs, I take in the beautiful scenery. Under the ivory arcades a little girl hands out sunflowers almost as tall as her, a pink cart sells flamboyant cotton candy rumoured to taste as sweet as true love’s kiss while a violin quartet plays an old lullaby in the corner. The notes follow me, echoing on the walls of the stairs. Londinium truly looks beautiful on this Saturday morning. And yet it is nothing compared to the capital of the Caspian Empire, Lisbona, a marvellous mirror maze where buildings rise high up to brush the clouds like glass fingers.
“Clear the way!”
I am pushed to the ground by a shouting officer who didn’t see me, or didn’t care that I was standing there. The officer is already gone as I get back on my feet and I find myself swallowing insults. Up ahead, more officers are yelling and shoving passerbys out of the way to create a path. As a crowd gathers on two sides of the street, I am forced to come to a halt and watch. Behind the officers, a dozen men and women are being dragged through the streets. Their hands are tied in thick, skin-digging ropes, their faces blindfolded, and they wear the gray robes of prisoners. My heart sinks at the thought of what is about to happen to them. Because it’s common knowledge: enemies of the Empire are executed without any real trial. Instead, it is a divine trial. As the prisoners move along, the crowd follows them. I try to force my way through, to escape this human river but its flow is much stronger than I am. The officers finally stop in front of Westminster Temple where an imposing alabaster statue rises, so tall I cannot glimpse at its carved expression from where I stand: Solaris, the god of light and creation. He is dressed in a long draped robe, his cupped hands raised, as though he were presenting an offering to the sky and ironically, the officers will be offering the prisoners’ lives to him. A shiver runs down my spine as they’re forced to their knees. While the blindfolds mask the prisoners’ faces, they do nothing to cover up their tears.
“Today, we punish the Infidels who have betrayed our god and discarded his guidance for impious beliefs. May Solaris forgive their poor souls for their missteps and let them be reborn.
Let them be reborn,” chants the crowd in unison.
I force the words out of my mouth. The officers move to tie a piece of clothing to the prisoners’ mouth, so that the evil in them doesn’t spill out and infect the people nearby. Knowing full well what comes next, I close my eyes shut. There’s no gunshots, no wailing cries that make my body tremble, instead all I hear is the faint sound of metal unsheathed. But, somehow, this silence is worse. It’s a heavy void that allows the mind to go mad down all those what-if roads… When the crowd cheers a few minutes later, I finally open my eyes again. The prisoners’ throats are slit, ruby rivers flowing down to form a lake on the ground’s cobblestone. They say blood houses one’s sins, and Solaris’ Infidels must be cleansed before they are sent to him and reborn as pure souls. All I can think of is that it must hurt like hell to bleed to death.
“May Solaris forgive the innocents and punish the sinners,” clamors the officer.
“May the innocents come back to us,” we respond.
Everyone falls silent then, all eyes on the dead bodies, waiting for a miracle to happen. But Solaris never forgives. And all the dead stay dead.
“Solaris’ judgement has been cast, and the sinners have been cleansed of their past misdeeds. May they be reborn as one of us in their next life, blessed with Solaris’ kindness and righteousness.”
Just like the statue, we raise a hand to the sky, wait a second, then lower our arm to the chest where our fingers fall upon our heart - we owe all that we are to Solaris and we cherish the love he bestows upon us. And yet, all are not equal in the eyes of this god. As he retreats towards his battalion, I notice that the officer who conducted Solaris’ trial wears a slightly different uniform. It is of a darker pine shade than the other officers’ clothing and is lined with thin golden stitches. Gold: one of Solaris’ emblems and the colour of the gods. Among us mortals, it is exclusively reserved to the people who have formed a contract with the gods. They are the descendants of the human vessels the gods once inhabited to found our great Empire. The Chosen, as they are sometimes called, can borrow some of the gods’ own divine powers. They are well respected in our society as envoys from the heavens and Solaris’ will on this earth. Most people accept this divine right to rule because who are we to defy the gods? And because those who don’t end up as corpses before our eyes. Some of us mortals have been chosen by our god to lead our Empire and, wise as he is, Solaris must choose the strongest, kindest, most faithful of his servants. I’m still unsure what I was chosen for exactly.
When the crowd finally disperses, I hurry back home, half running, as if to escape the terrible vision of these deaths when I know full well they will be back to haunt me in the form of nightmares. I stop in front of a humble house entirely painted white that contrasts with the brick-red colour of the neighboring buildings. Mom really does like this colour, it reminds her of Dad and the white lilies he used to bring her in secret back at the palace… I push the door open and enter.
“I’m home”, I call out to the empty entrance corridor.
It’s been thirteen years since Mom and I left the palace. We fled in the middle of the night, like fugitives, taking only a few clothes and my teddy bear. Londinium, the largest city in Sector 4, has been our home ever since. I take my shoes off and carefully add them to the already existing line of shoes that flanks the door. Mom is a clean maniac. As I stand back up, I see her head pop out of the corner of the corridor.
“Hey honey! How are y… Oh dear! What happened to your dress? Mavis, I told you to be more careful!”
She heads towards me, her perfectly braided auburn hair flowing in her wake. Once she is only centimeters from me, she takes a hem of my dress in her delicate fingers. As she does so, I look down and understand why she’s frowning like that. The hem of my dress is full of mud stains. Thinking back, they must be from when that officer shoved me to the ground. That’s what I tell her as I grab a sponge and start scrubbing my dress clean. If only I had used my ability, I would have never fallen in the first place. But Mom is very clear about that: I must never use it in public. So I don’t, because I don’t want to see the shaking fear in people’s eyes, and because I don’t want to die a Witch’s death. They are criminals who have broken the divine rule, and use magic without having made a contract with the gods. While their abilities develop more weakly, they are not hindered by the terms of a divine contract and are a menace to the Empire.
Once the mud is only a distant memory, I go upstairs to my room. In the far corner, my bed, with plain sheets, is made. Mom always makes my bed, even though she knows that I’m not particularly fond of this habit. But I can’t force myself to tell her no. It’s a symbol of her new life. I take off my dress and set it on the window sill to dry before changing clothes. Mom is already done making dinner when I make my way downstairs. Unlike me, she doesn’t need to hide her gift. Whenever something needs to be put away: telekinesis. With simply the power of her mind she can levitate objects at her will and is now serving cottage pie on the dining table with her mind. I help her put on the glasses and cutlery before sitting down. After Dad turns on the radio, playing some soft jazz, they sit down next to me and we wait. “Any minute now”, I think. A second later, my little brother comes stumbling down the stairs, his chestnut hair a mess. Kai takes a seat across from me while Mom scolds him a hundredth time for arriving at dinner like some wild animal. To speak the truth, Kai is only my half brother and the person I call Dad every single day is not my father. I do resemble my brother in some ways, like our shared clumsiness. But while I may dye my hair every two months, there is no mistaking the difference in shade between my ginger locks and Kai’s chocolate brown mess of a haircut.
Dad always makes jokes at dinner. He’s the clown of the house and always makes Mom laugh, even when the food rations are lowered - or when there are mass Infidel executions.
“Effren, please! I’ll smack your head if you don’t stop with these terrible jokes,” laughs Mom.
Dad smirks at her and she pretends to slap him. To me, they’re like a fairytale come true: a Chosen leaving the comfort of luxury for love. Mom doesn’t talk much about her past life and I only have vague memories of the palace. I was barely six years old back then, and the memories of a six year old child are anything but reliable. Sometimes, I wonder if she ever regrets leaving everything behind, but then I remember her insisting to make my bed, painting the house’s facade all by herself in her favourite color, and laughing at Dad’s jokes. And suddenly I realize that she was never meant for the life she left behind.
“Is something wrong, Mavis?” asks Dad while shoving a spoon full of mash into his mouth.
I want to shake my head and continue eating but I know from the look in his eyes that he won’t let me go without an explanation.
“There was another execution today”, I whisper, in hopes that Kai doesn’t hear me.
To my relief, he looks entirely immersed in his plate. I glance at my parents. Their faces are frowning in worry, especially Mom’s. “Let’s talk about this after dinner” she mouths to me. Kai looks up at us, suddenly aware that we’re having a separate conversation without him.
“What are you talking about?
-Nothing,” we all reply, a little too quickly
“That’s not true! I saw you mouthing something and -”
As if to make things worse, the radio switches to the 8pm news.
“The dangerous fugitive 1AMD2303 by the name of Mikaela Delacroix is still on the run. If you see someone suspicious, please alert the authorities right away.”
There’s a quick jingle before the news continues.
“Newsflash! Today, the Infidel’s Resistance attempted to take the Tower of Londinium. The attack was swiftly resolved by the military with the arrival of commander Atlas who easily neutralised the terrorists. The rebels who surrendered are currently awaiting trial. While this event marks the fifth attack since the start of the month, authorities assure that -”
Mom cuts off the radio and sighs.
“Mavis came back with yet another stained dress,” she says casually, as though she was talking about the weather.
“Really? If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re doing it on purpose to outcompete Kai,” responds Dad, winking at me.
While Kai may only be my half-brother, he’s everything to me. Besides Mom and Dad, he’s the only family I have. In the Caspian Empire, “family” isn’t exactly part of the dictionary for a single reason: conscription. While we have been officially at peace with the Cathay Empire of the east since the Kiev treaty, the Era of the Great Wars is all too fresh in people’s minds. So instead of drafting all young civilians, families are only required to offer a single child at the age of 20 years old to join the army. The child has to bear the family’s name, but it doesn’t have to be the eldest. Often, it isn’t. The military’s forces are full of ‘troubled’ youth and ‘less promising’ youngest children sacrificed for the rest of the family. We never talk about it at home, but Mom and Dad know that I will be the one going. Never in my right mind would I Iet my dear little brother even go near the war front. That place is death’s territory. My 20th birthday is next spring, which means that in eight months, I will be gone from home. Normally, the Chosen are not sent to the front. “They are the divine creatures that rule our Empire. Their precious blood should not be spilled in the savage trenches of the war” is a phrase that has been engraved in our minds ever since we could understand words. When they do go to war, Chosen are battalion commanders or strategists, they do not stain themselves with lowly soldiers’ blood or die painful deaths in the trenches. Chosen families do not fear when their kin join the army but they should. While they may not bleed like common soldiers, they have much blood on their hands.
When we’re finished with dinner, Mom takes Kai upstairs to kiss him goodnight and I help Dad clean up the table. The three of us sit back down at the table afterwards.
“There was another execution”, I say again, letting the words out with what feels like my last breath.
“They’ve been getting more frequent lately. Witches or Infidels?
-Both.”
The two can be hard to distinguish. Witches steal their powers from the gods, disobeying the celestial rule of establishing a contract. They only use these newly acquired powers to harm others, if they even know how to use them correctly. Often they don’t. They’re the most blasphemous of mortals. But the Infidels are not far behind. The Infidels’ Resistance is the only organisation that openly disobeys the Empire’s rule, stealing army weapons and attacking Chosen ones, at least that’s what we’re shown. According to the latest imperial Report, these two populations have not yet joined forces. In any case, both are equally dangerous and ungrateful for everything Solaris and the lesser gods have done for us.
“I know it’s hard for you to watch everytime”, Mom says gently.
Well, that’s an understatement. My stomach feels like it’s being ripped apart by claws and I want to throw up. Is it not normal to feel this way when people bleed to death in front of you?
“It’s so…cruel.
-It’s Solaris’ will.”
But is it really? Would a kind, loving god desire such a death for anyone?
“Mavis, you must trust Solaris. He knows what is best for us. Without his guidance, the Empire would never be what it is today. As Chosen, we are much closer to him: we are connected by our contracts. You know that all he does is for our good don’t you?.”
It is said that Solaris’ Chosen are tightly connected to him, that some can communicate with him even after their contract ceremony during childhood. That is why the Empire’s ruler is a Chosen, and why so many chosen ones work in the temples. And yet, to me, he has always remained painstakingly silent since my ceremony. The fact that I refuse to use his divine gift probably does not help either. Mom must see that something is still troubling me, she adds:
“Solaris loves us all…
-May we be thankful for his love,” I finish.
Both of my parents nod, and then I’m off to my room. As I slip under the blankets, I think back to our discussion. I know that Solaris loves us, he brought peace to the continent for us. But sometimes I wonder if all of this is truly what he wants, and if somewhere along the line of his chosen prophets his words have not been lost.
The next morning I wake up to find Kai banging on my door.
“Get up lazy Mavis, it’s Sunday!”
With a yawn, I get out of bed, my mind still fogged by the weight of sleep. I’m headed for my wardrobe when Kai barges into my room, tripping on the doorframe. I swear, he never learns.
“What are you doing in my room?
-You look like a walking corpse.
-Thank you, and that doesn’t answer my question.
-Anyway, Mom said you had to get ready real quick ’cause we’re stopping at the bakery on our way.
-Fine, I’ll get dressed and meet you all downstairs.”
When I get out of the house, Mom, Dad and Kai are all waiting for me.
“Finally!”, sighs my brother blatantly. He stares at me for a few seconds, then adds: “Oh, and you haven’t washed your face.
-How did you…
-Because you still have that zombie look on your face.
-I’m just tired! Plus I didn’t have time to wash my face, what with you nagging me every two seconds.”
I give him a fake slap on the shoulder but already Mom is reprimanding him.
“Kai, leave your sister alone.”
We set off to the bakery with Kai pouting like he always does when Mom chides him. I try to catch her sight and when I do, she gives me an apologetic smile.
“Sorry”, she mouths silently.
Mom knows that I hate those Sundays.
Every first Sunday of each month, the emperor addresses the population in a news report. News about the royal family, the war, or new decrees and laws. Presence is mandatory for all. But that’s not what bugs me the most. What I really hate about Report Sundays is that I have to see the emperor, the man who sits on top of the world and can decide a person’s fate. The man who exiled me and my mother without a second thought.
“Kai, stop sulking, you know your mother was only defending Mavis”, says Dad, trying to cheer him up. Hearing Dad lecture him too just fuels his irritation.
“Whatever”, he replies, annoyed.
I don’t know if it’s frustration or the call of bread, but my brother runs off towards the bakery without another word, only to collapse on an uneven stepstone of the street. Sometimes I really wish the community had the money to repave the roads.
“Kai, are you alright?”
Although my brother might not be a small child anymore, both me and my mother dash to his side. His knee is bleeding, and all I can think about is the growing scarlet pool in front of Solaris’ statue, how the Infidels bled to death in front of the crowd. “Their blood is tainted with sin”, would lecture Mom, “Kai’s is as pure as his heart”.
“Mavis?”
Just the sound of my name snaps me from my thoughts and my mouth twitches. When I was little, I asked Mom what it meant.
“Let me see, I’m not sure since it was your father’s suggestion, but I believe he told me that the meaning of it was joy.
-Joy?
-Yes, and I have to say that it grows on you, my sweet little Mavis”
Kai is still stooped on the ground, holding his bruised knee in shockingly calm hands. I turn to him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?
-Yeah I’m fine, look”, he says gleefully, almost with a sliver of pride, as he shows me the wound, “all gone!”
And he is right. Already the blood has dried and the cut is practically invisible under the fresh layer of soft new skin. Immediately, I glance at Mom. The panic in her eyes mirrors mine, not because Kai just hurt himself, a little scratch is the least of my worries, but because a wound, even insignificantly small like that, cannot possibly heal on its own in less than a minute.
I still remember Kai’s contract ceremony three years ago. My brother had been part of a dozen other children expected to perform their ceremony at Westminster Temple. The priest had called them one by one and handed them a silver cup filled with birch sap. Drinking this water from the tree of life, which birthed Solaris himself, establishes a strong connection between mortals and gods. If deemed worthy, one will experience a real-like dream of heavens during which they may form a divine contract. That is how a contract ceremony goes. However, my brother never formed a contract with any god, and did not receive a divine gift. He swore to the priest himself that he did not dream of the gods in the Temple. As Kai gets back up and sweeps a hand on his leg to clean the brownish mix of dust and dried blood, the dust flies away as quickly as the old wound had disappeared. But his hand cannot erase the thought oozing doubt that has formed in both mine and my Mom’s mind: that Kai might be a Witch. Once Mom has scanned the street to ensure that no one else could have witnessed this, she pats my brother’s head, bringing a bright smile to his face.
“When we get to the bakery you can choose a cookie, okay?”
A few corners of street is all it takes us to get to the neighbourhood’s local bakery. It’s an old Victorian building painted a blush pink with a large display window exposing a variety of cakes. The little golden bell rings blithely as we enter.
“Callie! How nice to see you!”
Jasmine’s head jerks up as she sees us.
“Hello Jasmine, it’s been a while.
-Well, it’s been a month to be more accurate, but I’ll let it slide.”
Passing by Jasmine’s bakery is a sort of tradition we have on Report Sundays, a little something nice on such a bad day. From the corner of my eye, I catch my brother gawking at the tiny little cakes, neatly presented in a glass showcase. There are those with the chestnut chocolate leaves, the ones with a sweet layer of strawberry jam on the top, others with a crispy crust, almost like a miniature tart, and so many others in all shades and colours of the rainbow.
“So, a regular loaf or shall I give you something more...original?
-Just the usual please Jasmine, oh and a cookie for Kai. Do you want something Mavis?”
I shake my head while Jasmine starts packing a bread loaf from a shelf and Mom takes out her purse. She takes out three golden coins, one for the bread and another two for the cookie. Life isn’t cheap in Londinium, or anywhere else in the Empire for that matter. Jasmine hands the goods to Mom, taps her apron and asks with a wink:
“I suppose you’ll be heading to Piccadily, is that right?
-Where else could we be going on such a day?
-I’m simply teasing you Callie. Wait a second and I’ll come with.”
We linger on the paved road while Jasmine locks the shop, Kai silently savouring his cookie. He probably won’t taste such delight for the next few weeks. After that, we head towards Piccadilly Circus which has the closest screen to home. Even then, we have to take the subway at Tower Hill’s station. We walk down the street and follow the sides of the Tower of Londinium. It’s an imposing construction, all brick and sharp edges, that is used by Sector 4’s governor to hold political meetings.
Today, bodies hang on the walls of the Tower of Londinium. They are pinned by the arms, leg and torso in a strange vertical position, arms open as if waiting for an embrace. Or a liberation. I don’t want to think about the sharp tools they must have sunk into the flesh of these poor Infidels and into the concrete of the wall to make them stick like that, like a twisted imitation of butterfly collections I’d seen in some antique shops, pinned to a cushion, framed in gold. There is nothing grandiose about being pinned dead to a wall however. Their heads are covered with burlap sacks on which a gigantic eye has been sprayed in crimson red paint. The Eye of Solaris, the Eye of Judgement. A dozen of them stare back at me, unblinking. It makes me want to turn away and run from these lifeless cyclops that just keep staring and staring straight ahead, scanning a horizon that no longer exists for them. On second thought, the bodies look more like scarecrows. With their arms wide open and their limp limbs, they remind me of the stuffed figures that farmers put in their fields to scare off birds and other nuisances. Except that these bodies do nothing to scare off the crows that come in flocks to relish the fresh flesh they have to offer, and that instead they are meant to scare the rest of us. Scaremen, that’s what they really are, a warning to all who dare think of denying our savior Solaris. As soon as she sees them, Mom quickly puts a hand over Kai’s eyes.
“What’s happening?”, he asks in his little high-pitched voice that makes my heart sink.
“Nothing darling, just eat your cookie.”
We walk faster and Kai doesn’t ask any other questions. He could just be preoccupied with savouring his cookie but some part of me believes that he knows what is going on and silence is his way of coping with the cruelty of it.
“I should have known they would be here if there was a trial yesterday”, murmurs Mom, to no one in particular.
Last night, I had used the term ‘execution’. But Mom had said ‘trial’.
We take the tube at the station and get off at Piccadilly Circus where the Reports are broadcasted on the large screen covering the facade of the buildings. On any other day, the place is a bustling hub of Londinium, with cars and buses coming and going, people crowding the pavement to get a look at the most trending shopping advertisements. I remember people going crazy for a particular clothing advertisement presenting a lovely blush pink vishy dress. The model was a Child of the Sun and everyone had run to the store to buy Ambrose Aucler’s picnic dress. Or at least Sector 4’s Chosen and the few rich Fours had. Today however, the place is silent. The children keep to their parent’s side and people are orderly crowded, facing the giant screen. We arrive at the square just as the Report begins. Far away, above the heads of thousands, the screen comes to life, illuminating the crowd with a sharp, almost divine light. Compared to the age of the Empire, 742 long years and 17 generations of rulers according to the history books, they are a recent innovation from the Electrical Revelation. For centuries, the descendants of lesser god Ximista had sought a way to trap their divine thunder in objects to serve as energy, but to no avail. That is until the discovery of Alfonsium, a unique metal capable of interacting with celestial magic like no other element before. But that is a story for another time. As my eyes adjust to the brightness, I finally glance at the screen. The Empire’s symbol, a terribly magnificent crown with sharp spikes like golden knives sitting upon a coat of arms representing all of the nobility’ abilities, glows on the screen.
Before my eyes, the gods’ vessels’ descendance appears, all dressed in bright velvet and silk and dripping with dazzling gems and crystals. The emperor stands in the middle, his face acute, a simple but symbolic golden crown upon his brow. On his left stands the empress Indigo, her platinum hair covered with nacreous pearls and silver crown a firm reminder of her status. On the other side of the emperor stands Atlas, descendent of Lesser god Powaga’s human vessel whose lethal god-given ability is gravity control. Child of the Sun and Commander of the Second Army Division, he is considered a prodigy and promising heir to the throne of the Caspian Empire and, like his mother, he wears Powaga’s colour, a deep shade of concrete gray like the colour of rain-heavy clouds before a storm.
“Dear citizens of the Caspian Empire, this Report will be brief but not uneventful. I received news this week that our border in Moskov has finally been established with the Cathay Empire and that this new territory has officially been annexed as part of Sector 10.”
While the crowd cheers at the news of victory, I can only wonder how long this era of peace will truly last. Since the Kiev treaty of 725, the Empire has entered a period of unprecedented peace and economic growth that historians from Sector 2 have named Belle Époque. The Moskov border was the last affair from the Kiev Treaty’s agenda to be discussed between the two great Empires, but now that even that is done I hope this peace will last for long, for very very long, so that my brother never has to witness the horrors of war as so many before us have.
“And now for the interesting news.”
My brow furrows in misunderstanding. If peace is not interesting news, then what is?
“Just yesterday, the youngest of the Children of the Sun, Sonia Chosen by Lesser Lord Billis, has reached the age of 18.”
Ah, so that’s what it is, a birthday party. He flicks his hand and she approaches, draped in a long merigold dress decorated with citrine and ambers like an orb sparkling on water, her dark hair meticulously braided into a crown. Once on camera, she settles next to Atlas, waving at us with a well-practiced smile on her face. I gape at the flowy dress she wears, mesmerised by its beauty. Such clothes, for Fours and people from other Sectors, are only worn by rich people and even then at big events. Sonia’s dress, although probably made by a famous tailor, speaks of an ancient time of balls and festivities, not so far away from the reality in Lisbona’s palace life.
“Now that all the Children of the Sun are of age, the Council and I have decided that it is time for the sons and daughters of the Sun to begin Crowntrial.”
Shreaks of joy blast through the crowd. Occurring every thirty to fifty years, Crowntrial is the most anticipated event in the Empire. It’s a tradition as old as the Empire itself, where the closest living descendants of the gods’ vessels, the Children of the Sun, face off to be crowned the next ruler. It has always been a cause of great excitement among the population as a time of celebration and change, much like the winter and summer solstices. However, since the Electrical Revelation, Crowntrial has taken a new meaning entirely. With the invention of the screen, film and camera, the competition is now televised. It’s turned into a game of sparkles and blood that greatly pleases the population. It’s the one time they see Chosen ones at each other’s throats, the one time they can taste some kind of power from the cruelty of it. It’s a drug that makes us forget that in this system, we are powerless. The last Crowntrial, which saw emperor Ronan Chosen by Lesser Lord Billis rise to the throne, took place a couple of years before I was even born, so it’s no wonder people are ecstatic at the news of the new Crowntrial.
“They will be tested on the strength of their ability, their courage, their intelligence and, of course, their love for our Empire and Solaris. Come forth, Children of the Sun.”
Under our very eyes, the camera decentralises and all of them emerge on scene. Malmur, Erzelem, Lekki, Akvo, Föld… the descendants of the gods and the most powerful nobles of the Empire rise before us. All this is yet another demonstration of power. I hardly listen as the emperor names them, one after the other.
“...Cinders Marlow chosen by Lesser god Eldur, Sullivan Hyde chosen by Lesser god Vaikus and finally Ambrose Aucler chosen by Lesser god Ximista.”
Ambrose Aucler, not only is she a famous model, she’s also the closest descendant of lesser god Ximista and the grand-daughter of the scientist who drove the Electrical Revelation in Sector 2. Since then, the Aucler family has gained in both fortune and status, and she very clearly wishes to improve her family’s reputation further yet. On the screens, the Children of the Sun stand proudly united, resplendent like Solaris himself, until the scene turns red with flames. Smoke rises from behind the stage, and screams reverberate through the amps. Around me, the shouts of joy turn into gasp as the camera lens shatters and the image high up on the buildings blurs to a haze. There's explosions, and what sounds like gunshots. We look at each other, worried for the safety of our emperor and the Children of the Sun. When the image returns, Atlas stands among the chaos of the now ruined stage, surrounded by blooded armed corpses. None of them are clothed in velvet or gold. As he stares into the camera, commander Atlas looks like he could kill someone. And it seems like he just did, a whole dozen of them.
“This is the work of the Infidel’s Resistance, cowardly attacking us on this day of festivities!”
In the background, a wailing cry erupts. As the camera decentralises, its source becomes clearer. A woman, around Mom’s age, is hunched over a pile of crimson and orange cloth. A bloody sunset. Poor Sonia, barely eighteen and already called to Solaris’ side in such a cruel way. She didn’t deserve to die like this.
“May her soul rest in peace in the realm of Solaris”, says the emperor.
The crowd turns silent for a minute, eyes closed and hands clasped to honour little Sonia’s abrupt departure. Once the minute is over however, murmurs start to spread among people. With Sonia’s death, who will take her place as the Child of the Sun for Lesser Lord Billis? Heartbreak stains the emperor’s eyes as he speaks.
“I promise you that the ones responsible for this will be brought to justice. In these troubled times, Solaris will show us the way and choose the next Child of the Sun. Crowntrial will pursue as planned in a month’s time at Pena Palace.”
Pena Palace, the home I fled on a random night and a complete blank in my memory. Pictures flash behind my eyes: a pile of books heavy in my six year-old arms; a linen scarf, the one she used to wear during the rainy season; my heart beating to agony in my tiny ribcage; a broken clock behind the desk, its hands stopped forever at midnight; pearls of blood dropping…slowly…s.l.o.w.l.y…to the ground.
“Mavis. Mavis? Mavis, snap out of it!”
For the first time in thirteen years, I feel it. My ability. I try to control it, willing it back inside me where it is safe for myself and others. But try as I might, I can’t grasp it, like a trail of water slipping through my fingers, threatening to cascade upon the innocent crowd surrounding me.
“Mavis!”
Mom is shouting now, I can see it on her reddened cheeks, but it feels like a whisper, so far away. She takes my face in her bitter cold hands, trying to get through to me, but it’s useless. Already my cursed ability is taking hold. Next to Mom, another familiar face worries.
“Mavis, what’s wrong? Are you really sick.”
Sweet gentle Kai, so clumsy and childish and yet … his presence is soothing, like cool water on burnt skin. I breathe again, not much but enough. Mom takes me in her arms, crying. She never cries.
“My sweet little Mavis”
Her voice breaks with tiny sobs and her arms tremble as she hugs me close. She’s scared, scared of what just happened, scared of what might happen again, scared of that stupid, stupid ability. And I am too.
