Page 30 of Harbinger

The sinking sensation continues when the doors to the throne room open again and Bishop Marius enters with the king and a contingent of guards in black dress uniforms. His knights position themselves in front of the exit. With the royal family and most of the nobility in attendance, the knights aren’t here to observe. They’re here as security.

Bishop scans the initiates with the same cold, assessing look he wore in the alley. When his gaze reaches mine, it pauses for just a moment longer than the others. Then he takes a place by the main door, hands clasped behind his back, eyes tracking King Ophelian as he makes his way to the throne.

The vesper from the astrolatory trails behind him, holding a bloodred pillow with an ornate box resting on top.

The king stops before the throne, and a hush falls over the room.

“Five hundred years ago,” he begins, his voice carrying through the space, “our ancestors faced a choice: submit to the darkness that threatened to consume our world—or stand against it together.”

A few nobles shift in their seats. Some of the older ones mutter to each other. More than a few look at the fallen constellation’s blackened mark like it’s marring the floor.

“They chose unity,” the king continues. “Five bloodlines joined with mine to bring an end to the fighting. Five stood here after the last blood was shed. Five swore it would never happen again. And those five bloodlines—your bloodlines—entrusted my family to guide us into a new era where magic was granted not by luck or chance but to those who were worthy of it. To those willing to take up the responsibility of governing it for all of Antares.”

A laugh bubbles in my throat, but I swallow it down. And five hundred years later, we license magic to anyone with a large enough bank account. We marry to steal the secrets of other orders and secure our family fortunes. We whisper behind one another’s backs. It’s not exactly the unified front he’s describing. I suppose we all secretly hate each other but pretend otherwise for political gain doesn’t sound quite as inspiring.

“Tonight,” the king says, his gaze sweeping over us, “you join that sacred trust. Tonight, you take your first step toward sharing the great responsibility of protecting our kingdom. Tonight, you become guardians of Antares’s future.”

My feet ache as the speech drags on, the straps of my shoes digging into my skin. I shift my weight carefully as he drones on about duty and the future, trying to ease the pressure on my pinched toes.

He finally winds down—thank the Stars—and nods to the vesper. She steps forward, bowing her head as she lifts the pillow to present the box. The king reaches inside and draws out last night’s dagger, its jeweled handle glinting in the starlight.

With a dramatic flourish, he raises the knife and says, “Come forth and claim your birthright.”

This part is usually over quickly. At least Broderic’s was, four years ago in Damalis. The ceremony itself had been fast and to the point. A boring knife and a tiny bowl on an altar. At least tonight’s pomp and circumstance gives people something to stare at besides me.

Broderic received his mark without complaint, and we celebrated with a cake Isidore baked that afternoon. Something tells me that my own Kindling won’t be so simple, since tonight there is a line of initiates waiting to step forward and make their offering to the Stars.

But I will survive, and, in a few days, we’ll be back in Damalis, where I’ve never been robbed or attacked, there’s no need for brooding soldiers, and people are too busy to bother with forbidden books.

The attendant calls the first name: Lucian Carrera. He strides forward, chest puffed, displaying the confidence of someone who’s never doubted his place in the world. His family probably bought the first spot in line to prove his importance. At the well, he picks up the ceremonial dagger and pricks his finger without hesitation.

A single drop of blood falls into the basin.

For a second, there is only the silence of held breath. Nothing happens. Almost like the Stars refuse to answer. Like the magic is stuck. A few whispers ripple through the audience, and even my chest threatens to cave in.

But then, silver light races through the channels in the floor, rushing along them like water finding its course. Relieved gasps fill the room as above us, the stars of the hydra constellation brighten until they’re nearly blinding. Lucian gasps and staggers back a step, like something hit him. His hand flies to his wrist. I lean forward, holding my breath.

When he raises his wrist, his mark shimmers there—the hydra in miniature, etched into his flesh in lines of glowing light. The magic is still new, still settling, but as we watch, it fades into a silvery scar that marks him as Order Velesont.

Applause erupts, and I nearly jump out of my skin, our audience forgotten in the presence of true magic. Lucian grins, rejoining our line with even more swagger than before.

They continue calling names. Each ritual follows the same pattern—blood, light, constellation, varying degrees of wincing followed by a mark—but the locations vary. The Stars mark a girl named Ellena on the back of her neck, the brand hidden beneath her hair until she lifts it to show everyone the lines of a chalice. The first initiate from the Petition gets his on his palm, the lioness symbol roaring silently every time he flexes his hand. The sole initiate of Order Marius receives hers on her upper thigh. One of the knights whistles loudly as everyone claps. I can’t resist peeking over at Bishop to see what he makes of that, but he’s staring sullenly ahead like just being here is a chore.

By the seventh initiate, my earlier awe has worn off. By the tenth, I’m actively fighting back yawns. The mystical ceremony becomes routine. Even the gasps from the audience grow more perfunctory. Several of the elderly nobles have dozed off, chins dropping to chests and mouths hanging open. I count the remaining initiates—five, four … Looks like I’m being left for last. What a surprise.

My feet throb. The straps of my gown chafe against my skin. I’m fantasizing about ripping it off when the attendant calls, “Arden Icaros.”

Murmurs run through the crowd, the audience instantly interested in the pomp and circumstance again. I can’t bring myself to look at Broderic to see if he notices. Not with hundreds of eyes watching me so sharply that it’s like knives stabbing me in the back.

A heavy weight settles across my shoulders as I take the first step toward the well and nearly stumble because of my pain-numbed feet. I catch myself, but the heel of my shoe hits the stone sharply, and I cringe as the sound echoes through the chamber. I can’t mess this up. It’s only a drop of blood, a light show, a mark on my skin somewhere, and then I can take off these damned shoes forever.

The ceremonial dagger waits on the fat rim of the basin. Dried blood speckles the blade from the other initiates. No one wanted to ruin their fancy clothes by wiping it off. I pick it up, its weight familiar in my sweating palm. The hilt is warm from all the hands that have held it tonight. Using the same knife is symbolic for the others—proof of the sacrifice they made. For me, it’s a pointed reminder. Then again, how many ceremonial daggers do they have lying around?

I prick my finger with the tip of the blade. It’s quick and sharp, and I barely register the sting. I’ve had worse injuries from thorns. A perfect red pearl beads on my fingertip. One drop of blood in exchange for a lifetime of power. It hardly seems fair. But I hold my hand over the well.

The drop falls.

And nothing happens.