Kaitlyn Patterson - The Diminished

Fury flooded me. Nothing, not even the threat of death, could make me become one of those mindless, soulless murderers. The people of Alskad might think that the Shriven were righteous, holy even, protecting them from the atrocities of the diminished, but I knew better. I’d grown up in the temple. I knew the kinds of poison that ran through their veins.

“Over my rotting corpse,” I snarled.

Lugine drew in a sharp breath, but Sula put a calming hand on her arm.

“We assumed you’d say something of the kind.” Bethea laid a stack of papers on the table.

“What’s that?” I asked warily.

“A choice,” Sula said. “We care for you, as much as you may not believe it. We’ve not brought this matter before the Suzerain. Instead, we’ve decided to let you choose your own path. You may either join the ranks of our holy Shriven, or you will be sent to Ilor, to spread the word of our high holies to the wild colonies by helping to construct temples there. You’ll serve one month for each pearl you stole from the temple through your deceit. Twenty-five years.”

My breath caught in my chest. It wasn’t a choice. Not really. Either way, I would be forced to spend the rest of my life in service to a pantheon of gods and goddesses I didn’t believe in, couldn’t bear to worship.

I would be no better than a prisoner in Ilor, but I knew deep in my bones that I could never join the Shriven. I could never be like Curlin.

And there was a bright spot of hope in a future in Ilor: the only person who’d never been afraid of me. While I knew I would never see freedom if I accepted the temple’s twenty-five-year sentence—the grief would take me long before those years were up—but at least in Ilor, I would be close to Sawny. I would see him again. Missing Sawny was an ache that went all the way to my bones.

I met the eyes of the three anchorites and took a deep breath, rising to my feet. “Ilor. I choose Ilor.”

I stalked out of the room, visions of space, of time to myself, of freedom crumbling in my mind, leaving my bowl of half-congealed mush uneaten on the long-scarred table—and my hard-earned fortune in the hands of the anchorites.

CHAPTER SIX

BO

My bedroom was warm from the large fire crackling in the hearth, but I was ice all the way to my bones. I’d been cold since I woke up, probably due to nerves at the thought of what the day would bring. I smoothed my jacket’s embroidered cuffs and stared out the window. I turned sixteen at midnight, and the Queen would declare me a grown man, singleborn of the Trousillion line and successor to her throne. The thought of that heavy crown and the responsibility that came with it nauseated me.

I wanted to be King. I wanted to be a great king, but I’d never felt the easy entitlement the other singleborn flaunted. And after the incident in the park, I’d never felt so unsure of myself, so afraid. I’d spent my whole life preparing for this day, yet still feared that I would trip over some part of the ceremony and embarrass myself—or, worse, my mother.

The soft din of the party drifted through the palace. The fashionable quintet my cousins had hired seemed to play only fast, reeling tunes. My feet ached at the idea of another night spent dancing, but I’d do, as always, what was expected of me, though the stack of books Rylain had sent for my birthday called to me from my bedside table. There was a history of trade dating back to the cataclysm that I ached to dig into.

Outside, in the dark night sky, the two halves of the fractured moon were full, and so close they looked like they might crash into each other. My tutor, Birger, said this interaction of the moon’s halves was a rare and good omen: the reunited twins. He claimed that when the halves of the moon were close, the goddesses and gods forgot the evil our ancestors had done when they split the moon in half. I’d always thought they looked more like twins conspiring in a corner than a pair long lost and reunited, and personally ascribed to the theory that the halves were always the same distance apart—it was our perspective that shifted.

No great wonder Birger was so fascinated by the moons. He and his twin, Thamina, were always whispering in each other’s ears and exchanging those infuriatingly weighted looks twins gave one another. Nothing made me feel more alone than standing in a room full of twins, steeped in the knowledge that I ought to be grateful for the fact that I was singleborn. I knew it was a blessing, but the constant reminders that I’d been born with a greater conscience, a keener sense of justice, a powerful birthright—they had never helped me see those things in myself.

A knock at the door brought me out of my reverie, and Mother swept into the room, not waiting for my response. Rather than her usual well-cut breeches, silk tunic and jacket, She wore a floor-length, lavender-gray gown that sparkled with silver embroidery and accented her olive skin. Her brown hair had been curled, and it brushed the immaculate white fox-fur stole wound round her neck. Huge hunks of raw diamond set in creamy gold cuffs decorated each of her wrists, but her bare arms and sleeveless dress made more of a statement than those jewels. She was the living personification of Dzallie, invincible and immune to the chill of the early summer night.

She narrowed her dark eyes and looked me up and down and adjusted my jacket. “That color suits you, Ambrose. It brings out the gray in your eyes.”

“I thought it was a little garish, but Claes insisted I choose something bright.” I felt like a pigeon dressed in peacock feathers. The purple silk jacket was festooned with scads of embroidery; colorful birds and flowers exploded from my shoulders, trailing down the sleeves and to the wide hem that brushed the floor. At least my trousers were plain—if very fine—gray wool, with embroidery only along the cuffs.

I was waiting for someone to notice how out of place I really was.

“You look so like your father, Ambrose.”

She wasn’t exactly right. I saw him in the line of my jaw and the stubborn set of my mouth, but my eyes were gray where my father’s had been hazel, and I’d grown taller than both my parents by the time I was twelve. Four years later, and I still hadn’t filled out the promise of that early growth. Though my shoulders were broad enough, I was tall and skinny, where the rest of my family was small and muscular.

I coughed, not knowing what to say. I never knew what to say about my father. His absence was like a gaping hole in our lives, and Mother had an uncanny knack for bringing him up at times when feeling the enormous emptiness of his loss would be crippling. I didn’t think she did it on purpose.Even after four years without him, the specter of my father’s death was a constant weight my mother carried. Her grief followed her everywhere, and his memory colored every private moment we shared.

Mother perched on the edge of a gilt-legged settee piled with furs and patted the seat beside her. I sat obediently, careful not to wrinkle my jacket or sit on her skirt. She ran a hand through my newly shorn curls. She used to cut it herself when my father was still alive, as she’d done for him. We’d had the same dark brown curls, unruly and difficult to style. But since his death, she’d left the task to my valet and was ever critical of his work.

“I have something for you.”

I looked at her questioningly. “I thought we were going to wait to open gifts until tomorrow. The spectacle’s half the ceremony, or so Claes and Penelope are always telling me.”

“You’ll get the rest of your gifts tomorrow, but this is between you, your father and me. He and I decided long before his passing.”

She pulled a small cedar box from her skirts and handed it to me. I untied the crimson ribbon. Inside the box, a long, brass key rested on a velvet cushion.