Deathless

I’m permitted to pull back my veil at mealtimes. Everything else must stay in place: the tightly woven gloves, the stockings, the choker that covers the small sliver of neck my collar doesn’t reach. But I cannot eat with a veil in my way, and this is my parents’ begrudging compromise. I may bare my face during meals as long as I don’t get up from my chair, and as long as I don’t take too long. Guards stand posted at every corner of our dining room, pikes gleaming, waiting to run me through if I so much as twitch.

Dinner is everyone’s least favorite time of day. Theirs because I could accidentally kill them. Mine because they could and would murder me without a second thought.

Tonight is a special night, however. Normally, my mother and father take their meal at the far end of our lengthy oaken table, discussing Magnate politics over wine and seared Neptunian dawnfish, glancing at me only if my knife scrapes the plate too loudly, or if either of them brings up our ‘unfortunate circumstances.’ But tonight, they must actually speak to me. They have no choice. Tomorrow morning I will leave for Proserpina, the Lovers’ Moon, and if everything goes according to plan, I will never see them again.

They very, very much want the next two months to go according to plan.

We sit in a funny little arrangement, trying to find the best balance between convenience and safety. My parents sit about four feet away on either side of me, just close enough that we won’t make fools of ourselves by shouting, but too far for me to touch one of them before a guard ends my life. They too are not standing in their usual spots; I’m flanked by four of them, two right beside me and two behind, while my mother and father have one each in easy distance. Their steel glints menacingly in the torchlight that illuminates the spacious hall. I wouldn’t be surprised to find they were ordered to sharpen their weapons just for today.

Despite every precaution, despite all necessity, we eat our first course in silence. Only when he has taken his last bite of soup and ordered the servants to clear away our bowls does my father speak.

“Vaulia,” he says, “the maids tell me you’ve made good progress on your packing.”

A compliment. How rare, though I doubt that news comes as a surprise to either of them. Even with twenty dresses, three pairs of riding trousers, two dozen shoes, enough jeweled accessories to line a shop, and gloves in every shade and length to load into my trunks, I’d managed it all before lunch. There’s nothing else for me to do but read, or stare up at the artificial sun above our house as it tried to block out the glimmer of stars. Boredom is my constant companion and my greatest enemy. Of course I leap on every chore they agree to give me.

Besides, every scrap of cloth I stuffed into those leather boxes reminded me how close I am to turning my back on sad, frigid Pluto forever. The prospect lingers inside me still, like a flutter in my heart. A few hours more, a few words more, and the gaudy chambers and drafty halls of my parents’ estate will be a memory. The Bacchanale will be my freedom — and maybe the cage I find after it will have prettier bars than this one.

I let myself smile at the thought, even as a servant swipes my soup away half-finished.

“Lauda is sewing the last of the crystals on that cream-colored gown.” The nicest one we commissioned, worth a substantial chunk of my parents’ income as Magnates, to be worn only on the final night of the Bacchanale. “She’ll drop it by my room when she’s finished. I can pack it in with my books and stationery.”

My mother takes a sip of wine and glowers.

“They will have stationery there. And books enough too, even for a girl as studious as you.” She spits the word out like an insult. She is not studious, after all. She is outgoing, driven, ambitious. Everything that a daughter locked away her whole life could never be. She abhors me for it, even though I share her face and dutifully tack her name on after mine, in the Plutoi tradition of family names. Vaulia nu Praeta; Vaulia, of Praeta.

She probably abhors me all the more for it. Seventeen years wasted on a useless child. I’m certain her and Father are already planning their next, one that can serve them in the decades to come. One who isn’t cursed.

My anger bubbles up at the thought, but it’s dangerous to show such a thing with six pikes poised to skewer my neck.

“Would you prefer I spend the time socializing, Mother?” I ask, the barest edge of venom in my voice. “I’m sure there will be plenty of interesting people attending this year.”

Father starts like he sat on a nail.

“Let’s not give her too many ideas, dear. Reading in her room will be a fine way to spend her time, so long as she goes to all her meals and attends the events,” he says, reaching across the table to take hold of Mother’s hand. She pulls it roughly out of reach, her dark eyes locked onto mine with the cold hostility she’s had centuries to perfect.

“It will be the only way she spends her time,” she snaps.

The double doors of the kitchen fly open then, and three servants wearing our livery of plum and midnight blue emerge, carrying dishes that smell of smoke and familiar spices. I sniff the air, trying to identify what they’ve chosen for my final meal as their daughter. Nyxian elk: the massive beast found only in this region of Pluto. Few can afford to import it, since the meat is hard to prepare and even harder to hunt. But it is delicious, and unless someone drops the money to serve it themselves at the Bacchanale, this will be the last time I ever have it. I don’t know if my parents mean it as a cruelty or a kindness.

Either way, the slender girl who always lays my plate does so with deft fingers that still shake when they hover near my face.

Father digs into his roast with fresh silverware, its juices dribbling out in red rivulets as he saws it with his knife. I do the same, unable to help myself. Mother leaves her plate untouched.

“We won’t have another chance to remind her of the rules,” she says. “Perhaps we should make sure she remembers them before she scurries off to get her dress.”

“Ah. Not a bad idea. Would that be helpful, Vaulia?”

There are indeed rules that govern the Bacchanale. What happens when, who talks to whom, what you can or can’t do; even your position at meals is dictated by some Officiator’s hand, preserved as tradition from millennia ago, when the Plutoi first built the Lovers’ Moon. But I know they aren’t speaking of those rules. They are formal things, widely known and taken to heart by those wealthy enough to attend a Bacchanale. They want to remind me of the rules they’ve given me. The rules only I will be expected to follow.

I don’t want to hear them again.

“No, thank you. I know very well what’s expected of me.”

“Indulge us, darling.” She only ever uses pet names as a weapon, taunting me with the love I’ll never have. “Your future is not the only one at stake on the Lover’s Moon.”

Isn’t it? What would happen to them if I caused some great scandal among the Plutoi’s upper crust? If I killed a suitor at the Bacchanale, would anyone link my mother’s face to mine? No one knows I exist, not even the other Magnates; if they did, they would have blackmailed my parents already. They could be shamed if I’m discovered, ridiculed, maybe even taken to court for sheltering a daughter born with forbidden magic. But they would still be alive. They would still have their estate, their money, and their prestige. They could come back from disaster. I, on the other hand, would be burned at the stake, alone, unknown, and despised.

My knife screeches against my plate as I wrench some venison away from the bone. Mother will have her way no matter what, so it’s best to get it over with.

“Fine. What exactly do you want to remind me of?”

Father offers, “The path of your journey, first of all. The transport —”

“The transport at the stardocks will take me to Charon,” I rattle off mechanically. “I’ll travel from there to Proserpina with the Charonites, and while I’m there, I will hide among them at the lowest table.”

“Except when you’re seeking out your betrothed,” he says.

“Except when I’m seeking my betrothed.”

“Or when you’re spending your hours far away from the others,” Mother interrupts. “In your room. Out on the lake. It doesn’t matter once you’re off our lands. As long as you’re not putting anyone in unnecessary danger.”

I purse my lips.

“I feel sorry for the poor man you picked for me, then. He’ll be in unnecessary danger for the rest of his life.”

Father finishes his last noisy mouthful of the elk and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. A small bit of the sauce dripped onto the collar of his dress shirt while he was eating, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He knows. We made him well aware of the dangers he’d be taking on, bringing you into his home. He wasn’t swayed.”

“What a gentleman,” I say.

“I thought so too. Your mother and I were quite selective when negotiating your betrothal. This young man is a perfect fit for all our interests.”

But they know as well as I do that perfection never comes without its price.

“What does he want in return?”

“Political favors. Assurances that we’ll protect Neptunian interests in the Magnate’s Court. And a far from insubstantial sum of gold,” Mother answers, swirling the deep red wine in her glass.

I cling to that word: Neptunian. They’ve revealed so little of this man to me, though the deal has been sealed for a month now at least. His generosity makes more sense now. Uranians and Neptunians are always vying for power in the political circles of Pluto, since the decisions made here affect politics, trade routes, and even warfare from here to as far as the reaches of Saturn. Magnates like Mother and Father have their hand in most of those decisions. The risk of death is probably an enviable price to get in their good graces — and he got a little money out of the deal, too.

“Do you actually plan to give it to him?” I ask.

“Of course. He’s doing us a great service,” Father says, ever the honest man. His voice carries no malice. His eyes show nothing other than the satisfaction of a well-made transaction. He has never hated me the way Mother does; he fears the death I carry, as he should, and fears what I could do to his reputation were I to be discovered. But he takes no joy in hurting me, and though his words may have stung a girl younger and more sensitive than me, they are the truth. Lamenting that truth will get me nowhere.

Still, I put my silverware down. I’ve only finished half my portion of venison and picked at my potatoes, but suddenly, I don’t feel like eating anymore.

“May I finally know his name?” I say. “Or what he looks like?”

“His name is Samael Clearwater,” says Mother. Father confirms it with a nod.

“As for his appearance, he sent us a trinket with his portrait inside, so you’ll know who to look for. We’ll give it to you before you set out tomorrow. He is a handsome young fellow. You could have done far worse.” More of his honesty, though again, the lilt in his voice tells me he doesn’t feel that it’s brutal. “Don’t worry overmuch about the Bacchanale’s supposed secrecy. He already knows who you are. I’m sure you two will find each other before the first day is out.”

“Do you remember the name you'll have on Proserpina?” Mother asks. She waves the servants over — they take her untouched plate without a trace of hesitation. I offer mine up to the serving girl with my gloved hands so she doesn’t have to worry so much about accidentally touching my face. I give her the most sincere smile I can manage before I turn back to my parents.

“Vaulia,” I answer. Mother narrows her eyes.

“Don’t be smart.”

“I’m not being smart. No one will know anybody’s family name until the engagements are announced. I’ll be Vaulia until my last day there. What other answer do you want?” I reply, only half-disingenuous. The Officiators of the Bacchanale strictly forbid anyone to share their family name; after all, the ideal that gave rise to it was that, if the Plutoi were going to live for centuries on end, they should do it with a person they love, not a political partner. Of course, all the wealthy families learned long ago to game the system, and many attending the festival know in advance who they’ll be expected to marry at its end. But we still pay lip service to the anonymity of old, and keep our names a secret until the final feast, when we announce our happy unions to the world.

Mother’s right. Once that day arrives, I’ll no longer just be Vaulia.

“I want to know that you’ve been branding this new name onto your brain. I want to know that it’s the first thing you see when you close your eyes. I want to know that when the Officiator reads it in front of the Magnate’s Court, there will not be a second of hesitation before you respond to it.” Her voice is low. She has long since outgrown shouting. “What is your full name, Vaulia?”

It’s not worth it to fight her any more on this. I drop my head in capitulation.

“…Vaulia ru Exilus,” I mutter, and Mother’s posture eases. The muscles that had tightened around her eyes and mouth loosen as she leans back in her chair, once again regarding me with passive disgust instead of hatred.

‘Exilus’ — exile. A dishonorable name, barely above a bastard’s. Apparently, I’m to be the daughter of a disgraced brother of hers who disappeared to the wilds of Saturn, leaving me helpless on my parents’ doorstep. The Bacchanale revelers will be horrified to learn it. They will pity Samael, and think that this is the scandal that explains my mother and father’s reticence these past seventeen years. I will disappear to Neptune with my husband, they will return to the spotlight of politics exonerated of everything, and soon enough, the people of Pluto will forget their brief glimpse of me, the long hidden orphan. If I cannot convince the Bacchanale and the Magnate’s Court that this is my name when they hear it, the entire plan goes to ruin.

“Remember it,” Mother says coolly. “There will be consequences if you don’t.”

I nod without saying a word. The servant slides a bowl of iced berries in front of me — I didn’t hear her approach at all. I pick at the crystalline collection of black, purple, and blue berries with my spoon, only eating a few of them. My appetite has gone sour since my few bites of the elk.

There’s one more thing they have to ask me about.

Father coughs awkwardly.

“Of course, we musn’t forget the…other matter,” he says.

“Of course,” I echo.

“Wearing a veil every day at the Bacchanale would raise some eyebrows — eyebrows I’m sure all of us don’t want being raised. For the first time in your life, you will be expected to leave your face completely bare. You’ll have your gloves, and we’ve ordered your dresses in the most modest fashions possible, but you will still be more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life. And the other young men and women won’t know what you can do to them.”

What I can do to them.

I feel it inside me: curled in my stomach, nestled in my heart, racing through every inch of my veins. It is always there, the roiling black rot that sleeps beneath my skin, but only when we name it so directly do I feel it as strongly as this. Only when I feel this noxious power of mine do I know that they are right to be afraid. I am afraid of it, too.

“If there should ever be an accident…?” Father asks.

“I’m to write a letter of bleakest heartbreak, line my pockets with stones, and walk into the lake,” I reply with a shaking voice, trying to force down the writhing sensation in my throat like bile. It is fighting to get out today, more than it has in years. It must know what I’m being asked to do — it must hate that I will agree to do it, if I must.

“And if there are any witnesses?”

Mother’s voice sounds far away. I tighten my grip on my spoon, afraid to open my mouth, lest a toxic cloud come out instead of words. I know it’s inane; my power is bound to touch, to my flesh and blood. But it is strong. Stronger than me. I don’t know what destruction it could be capable of if I didn’t fight it.

Mother looks up at the guard to my right and nods. He lowers his pike to my neck, its sharpened tip hovering only inches from my skin. I feel can feel the cold pressure of the metal when I swallow, inching as far away as I can without showing my true terror.

“If there are witnesses?” Mother repeats.

I take a shuddering breath.

The people of Pluto have power over death. For most, this means they can resist their own death, living many hundreds of years, until their magic is exhausted. It has helped us become the dominant ruler in our solar system, rivaled only by the silver light of Luna. But there is another power over death. A power that faded into nothing thousands of years ago. A power that the Magnates decreed to be absolutely forbidden.

I have that power. Anything I touch dies.

“I will kill them all.”