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CHAPTER SEVEN
Come nightfall, a call rang out through the halls of the Moon Palace—three melancholy notes of Nyaxia’s hymn. At the sound, I peered through the foliage to see a single, smoky thread of shadow leading through the greenhouse to the door and into the hallway beyond.
The message was obvious: I was being summoned.
My eyes were sandy and my joints aching when I rose and followed. Ilana’s bloodless, torn-up face still lingered behind every blink. I had clutched that purple scarf all night, the blood from my wounded hand soaking the silk.
I didn’t cry. No. I was fucking furious. Sadness was a futile, weak emotion. At least anger was useful—a sharp edge to cut another’s heart, or a hard shell to protect your own.
The thread of shadow grew thicker as more streaks joined the main corridor. The summons had been sent, it seemed, to every contestant who had survived the previous night. The Moon Palace was not pitch dark as it had been before. Now, warm light rippled over the hall, emanating from the torches lining the walls and the candles that floated above us in the vaulted ceilings. As I walked, I watched that light shiver over the not-quite-smooth mosaic tile and felt foolish when I realized what I hadn’t during the day: the floors were made of shattered bone and teeth.
The group of us grew larger as we moved down the hallway, more and more joining with each turn or doorway we passed. We sized each other up silently. By the time we reached our destination—the great room—there were, by my rough estimation, about fifty contestants. Most were clearly members of the House of Night—an even split between Hiaj and Rishan, based on those who had their wings out—but I counted about ten members of the House of Blood, and fifteen or so members of the House of Shadow. Some looked around anxiously. Sizing up their competition? Or searching for someone who was missing?
How many of us had died last night?
Most ignored each other, though the Bloodborn vampires remained close together in one tight pack. That made sense, I supposed. No one else would have them. I eyed the woman at the center of their group. She was taller than all the others. Her armor left her shoulders bare, revealing impressively cut muscles. Her hair hung in a long silver braid down her back. She had to be their leader, judging by how the others deferred to her.
I hung back, watching my competition with a lump in my throat. I’d spent my entire life trying to avoid being in this situation: trapped with powerful vampire warriors twice my size.
Across the room, Ibrihim caught my gaze. He gave me a grim, humorless almost-smile, as if maybe he knew we were both thinking the same thing.
On the balcony, a tall, thin man with a bald head and wan skin stretched tight over his skull regarded us. He wore simple black robes and a sash across his body that bore three sigils: a moon, a mask, and a weeping woman—the symbols of the three kingdoms of Nyaxia. The church was independent of the three vampire houses, operating across all Nyaxia’s subjects as a nebulously powerful and mysterious force. Most powerful and mysterious of all was the Ministaer himself, who was said to not even be a living being anymore, but merely a flesh-vessel for Nyaxia’s will.
This, to me, sounded like bullshit.
It was impossible to follow the Ministaer’s gaze—his eyes were solid milky-white, with no iris or pupil—but his chin lowered, and I couldn’t shake the skin-crawling sense that he looked directly at me.
I met that stare without flinching, even though I wanted to shudder and look away.
The Ministaer didn’t especially seem like the embodiment of a god. He mostly seemed like a lecherous old man. I’d met him a few times at various religious feasts. No matter how big the crowd, he was always far, far too interested in me. After one night when he practically trapped me in a corner when I was thirteen years old, Vincent never left my side when he was in my presence ever again.
If Nyaxia needed a flesh-vessel—which she probably didn’t—this one didn’t seem like a wise choice.
Several other acolytes joined the Ministaer on the balcony to his right, and to his left was the leadership of the House of Night—Vincent and his Cabinet. He wore a long, dark cloak embroidered with silver stars. His wings were on display, the threads of red stark against the black, and he even exposed his Heir Mark, leaving several buttons at the top of his jacket undone to reveal the swirls of red ink on his throat.
The intent would not be lost on anyone here. Simply revealing his wings and his Mark served as a warning: I am stronger than any of you. I stood where you stood, and I won.
It was odd to see Vincent flaunting his power so brazenly, but maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising. Rulers of the House of Night often killed the Kejari’s victors. Anyone that strong was inherently a threat. And as I looked around the room, so many of these bloodthirsty warriors stared at Vincent with such lustful hate.
I felt a bit naive for not realizing earlier Vincent’s other selfish reason for encouraging me to enter the Kejari: if I won, it meant these people wouldn’t. And there was absolutely no one in this world—not a single soul—that Vincent trusted, except for me.
The Ministaer cleared his throat, and an eerie hush fell over the room.
“Welcome,” the Ministaer said, “to the Kejari, the greatest honor in the name of our lady Nyaxia, Mother of the Ravenous Dark, Womb of Night, of Shadow, of Blood. In her name, I thank you for the offering of your presence. Aja saraeta.”
“Aja saraeta.” The echoing prayer rose from the contestants in a misty murmur.
“I have overseen twenty-one Kejaris, now,” he went on. “Two thousand years of tribute to our Mother of the Ravenous Dark. And every time, this eve is the one that is the most meaningful. Such possibility. Such potential.”
A too-long silence as he surveyed us. Then: “You have survived the initial call, and the initial cull. At sundown tomorrow, the Kejari officially begins. It will continue for the next four months. When you made your oaths, you gave our Dark Mother your life. You gave her your blood. You gave her your soul. And she shall keep all three. Even if you survive the trials, a part of you shall always belong to her. Aja saraeta.”
“Aja saraeta,” we all repeated.
“There will be five trials, each designed to pay tribute to the story of our goddess’s escape from the clutches of the White Pantheon and rise to power. The Full Moon trial. The Waning trial. The Halfmoon trial. The Crescent trial. The New Moon trial. Each trial will take place three weeks after the prior. The details of each test shall be revealed as it begins and not before. For the entire length of the Kejari, you shall reside here, in the Moon Palace. You may leave its walls between sundown and sunrise, if it pleases Nyaxia, but you must always be within its doors come dawn. Countless worshippers have lived here before you. Countless others will come long after your blood has dried from the floors. Through the Moon Palace, Nyaxia shall provide for you as she sees fit.”
As she sees fit. That sounded appropriately ominous. The Moon Palace provided shelter, food, water—until it didn’t. It provided safety—until it didn’t. The Moon Palace was not a place of rest. It was a trial all its own.
“Regarding the spilling of blood within the Moon Palace…”
I didn’t know it was possible for the room to get even more breathlessly silent. We had all, it seemed, been waiting for this. Sometimes, Kejari contestants were forbidden from killing each other outside of trials. Other years, no such restriction existed.
That was the thing about the Kejari. It had its rules and conventions, yes, but it was a little different every year, subject, like so many things, to Nyaxia’s whims.
“You may defend yourself against aggressors,” the Ministaer said. “However, the Goddess appreciates the gift of blood within her trials.”
What the hell did that mean?
I wasn’t the only one wondering. Bodies shifted uncomfortably—eyes sca
The Goddess appreciates the gift of blood within her trials.
Did that mean, Try to wait to kill each other until there’s an audience, if you can? If not, oh well!
Or did that mean, Save it for the trials and face Nyaxia’s wrath if you don’t?
I couldn’t decide which I preferred. If killing was outlawed this year, it might allow me at least a little bit of peace within the Moon Palace’s walls—maybe, given the lure of my human blood. Then again, it might be easier for me to pick off my opponents when they weren’t expecting it than it would be in the ring.
“You bind yourself to these rules when you offer your soul to Nyaxia in service of the Kejari,” the Ministaer said. “And you shall abide by them until the moment the tournament concludes, or until the moment she releases you from your oath. Aja saraeta.”
“Aja saraeta,” we murmured.
“You will be summoned at sundown tomorrow for the Full Moon trial. May the Mother guide you.”
The Ministaer lifted his hand, as if casting some great invisible blessing over us all, and turned away without another word. There was no final speech, no inspiring goodbye, no wrought-out prayer.
With eerie silence, the double doors beneath the balcony swung open, revealing what appeared to be a dining room. Above us, the priests and priestesses filed away. Vincent caught my gaze just before he went with them. An unspoken agreement passed between us. He inclined his chin, and I nodded in response before following the others through the double doors.
The feast in the dining hall put the one at Vincent’s party to shame. I’d spent many of the daylight hours combing through the greenhouse trying to identify edible plants, just in case—I wasn’t sure whether we would be given food at all, and if so, whether any of it would be safe for humans. But despite my shaky nerves and exhaustion, my mouth watered at the sight of the spread before me. Two long tables had been laid out with platters, each seating perhaps twenty-five or thirty chairs. We all filed into the room and lingered near the walls, as if we all feared that the feast might explode if we got too close to it.
Finally, a tall Hiaj man muttered, “Fuck it,” sat down, and seized a goblet of blood. That was enough to break the tension. The crowd descended upon the feast. I grabbed a plate, hastily piled it with food that at least appeared to be human-edible, and backed away, instead choosing to sit at one of the small end tables scattered around the outskirts of the room. A better spot for watching.
Some contestants gulped down blood like they thought they might never eat again—a fair concern. Others, though, seemed uninterested, instead stuffing provisions into their pockets or packs.
My lips thi
Of course they weren’t hungry. They had gorged themselves last night.