The Half King

1

“Fetch me a youngling hare, Cerise. And be quick about it.”

Cerise bowed to the Reverend Mother and spun on her heel toward the rabbit hutch situated at the opposite end of the courtyard. With haste, she wound her way through a maze of marble benches and shrines, moving her feet in an even glide—for ladies of the temple never ran—until she reached the hutch. She opened its roof, sending up the scents of wood dust and sweetgrass and revealing a new litter of kits resting inside. The babies blinked drowsily at her, twitching their downy ears and tiny pink noses. Cerise lifted the smallest kit from its nest and cradled it to her heart. As she glided back the way she had come, she stroked the rabbit’s delicate pelt and smiled as it nuzzled her palm.

She lived for moments like these.

But when she approached the Reverend Mother’s bench and noticed the thick serpent coiled in slumber beneath it, her footsteps faltered and her grin fell. She drew the kit closer to her chest. Now she knew why the Reverend Mother wanted it.

“Come and sit by me,” the Reverend Mother ordered.

Cerise obeyed, though slower than she should have. As she lowered to the bench, she tried to exude the confidence of an oracle—to mask her fear like the other girls did—but her breath shook when she exhaled.

The Reverend Mother seemed to soften at the sound. She extended a withered hand, her long, mirrored fingernails glinting in the sunlight, and settled it atop Cerise’s knee. “Tell me, girl. What do you feel for this animal?”

“Tenderness.” Cerise cleared her throat and spoke more clearly. “Affection.”

“Anything else?”

“Attachment.”

“Do you feel a warmth inside your chest that drives you to protect it?”

“Yes, Your Grace. It’s only a baby. It needs me.”

“Good. I want you to focus on that instinct. The kit’s life will depend on it.” The Reverend Mother pressed a palm to her breastbone and delivered a pointed look from beneath her cap of short, gray hair. She was three, maybe four times Cerise’s nineteen years. No one knew exactly or would even dare to ask. “Compassion is the source of our gift. Let it guide you, and you will See.”

Cerise nodded as if processing the words, but she had heard them a thousand times before. Her earliest memories involved toddling through this very courtyard and admiring the teenage Seers as they honed their skills.

They had made it look so easy.

“Kneel on the ground there,” the Reverend Mother said, pointing straight ahead of her at a stone paver located an arm’s length from the bench…and the serpent resting beneath it. “Take the kit with you.”

The edges of the stone pavers were sharp against Cerise’s knees when she took her place, but she barely noticed the discomfort. She was too distracted by the serpent on the ground in front of her—now awake and flicking its forked tongue into the air. The kit seemed to sense danger. Cerise felt its tiny heart beating faster than angelfly wings.

“Now then…” The Reverend Mother reached behind her and produced a small wire cage, which she placed on the ground directly in front of Cerise. Approximately two hand-widths wide and deep, the cage was open at the top. Along the front wall were six evenly spaced holes, large enough to let the viper inside but too small to allow the rabbit to escape. The holes were facing the serpent, creating a short, straight path from its resting place to the six entrances. “Place the kit inside the cage.”

Cerise did as she was told.

“The serpent will enter the cage,” the Reverend Mother said, “through one of the six front holes. It will not enter from the top. I know this because it is a simple creature and I can See which path it will choose. Close your eyes, clear your mind, and you will See it, too. Once you know the correct entrance, point to it, and I will spare your kit.” The Reverend Mother didn’t speak the alternative, but it hung thicker than pollen in the air.

Before Cerise could prepare herself, the snake uncoiled into a slow, predatory crawl that revealed the pattern of red interlocking circles on its back. A lowland flamewinder . If there was a more excruciating way to die, she couldn’t think of one. She clenched her eyes shut and focused on the warmth within her chest, holding tightly to the glow before it gave way to prickles of anxiety.

Which path will the serpent choose? she asked herself.

There was only darkness behind her eyelids.

She tried again to coax the answer from her mind’s eye. Which path?

Nothing. Not even a flicker of divination passed through her. She had just exhaled to steady her nerves when something happened that curdled her blood.

The kit began to scream.

Cerise opened her eyes in horror. She had never heard a rabbit scream. She hadn’t even known it was possible. It was an eerie sound, so charged with human emotion that she could easily mistake it for the cry of a child. The kit shrieked louder as it watched the snake approach; then, in hysterical panic, it hopped repeatedly against the wire walls, hurtling its tiny body into the barriers with an audible thud thud thud .

“Draw from your compassion,” the Reverend Mother said.

Cerise refocused, drawing on not only her compassion but every single emotion within her until she feared she might burst from the strain. Sweat slicked her body, making her shiver. She cleared her mind and opened her heart. When that didn’t work, she silently pleaded to the goddess for an answer.

Which path will it choose?

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t See the snake in her mind’s eye. The kit sent up a series of screams—death cries—as the serpent poked its head through the third lowest hole and drew back to strike.

Cerise plunged her hand into the cage at the exact moment the snake lunged forward. A pair of needle-sharp fangs sank into her forearm, and then came a pain so acute there wasn’t a name for it. She screamed from the pits of her lungs without a care for her reputation as a lady of the temple. Let the goddess Shiera take her—death would be a mercy. Fire boiled the blood inside her veins. The scent of charred flesh filled her nostrils. She expected her sleeve to erupt into flames, but instead of bursting outward, the heat compounded from within, doubling in intensity until spots danced in her vision.

The next thing she knew, the Reverend Mother was at her side, using her power as a healer to draw out the venom. Blood flowed from the wounds in a thin stream that fell to the ground and congealed there in a burgundy pool. Beside the bloody pool lay the snake, either coiled in slumber or dead. She couldn’t tell which. The venom left her veins, taking the fire with it, but even after the pain receded, she sobbed into her sleeve.

“Control yourself,” chided the Reverend Mother. She sat back on her heels and shook her head. “Well, I certainly did not foresee that . Once again, you have confounded me. I don’t know what to do with you.”

“I tried, Your Grace. I promise—” Cerise cut off with a hitched breath, although there wasn’t more to say. They both knew the truth and—more importantly—what it meant. Priests were the sole wielders of magic. Seers were oracles, foretelling paths to the future. A handful of exceptional Seers, like the Reverend Mother, also possessed the gift of healing. But Cerise’s only gift was the ability to bewilder her mentors.

The Reverend Mother turned her attention to the stony ground and used her healing energy to separate the venom from the blood. The mass split into two liquid orbs, one yellow, the other red, until the venom formed a pearl of pure toxin. Blood was free, but poison was too precious to waste, especially when rumors buzzed of impending war. The toxin would be crafted into a weapon and stored for defense.

“Do not be discouraged,” the Reverend Mother said in a voice devoid of hope. “We still have time.”

Three moons . That was how much time Cerise had until she turned twenty and celebrated her Claiming Day, the final occasion upon which her gifts—assuming she had any—would manifest. If she didn’t receive the Sight by then, she never would. It was the same for all second-born children given in service to the goddess. But in the nineteen years Cerise had lived at the temple, she had never met a Seer or a priest who had waited so long to receive a gift. In all likelihood, she didn’t possess one, and then what was she meant to do? There weren’t many options for ladies of noble birth, and as a second-born, she was forbidden to marry. The temple would keep her on, but only as a serving maid. She shuddered when she imagined what that would look like—cooking and cleaning for each new class of oracles, fading with age while they stayed perpetually young and full of promise.

Time would forget her. She might even forget herself.

The faint clicking of shoes sounded from the northern temple entrance, where a manservant strode toward them. As he crossed the courtyard, Cerise studied his clothes, which were simple and gray to match his station as a giftless second-born. Had the man dreamed of becoming a priest? Had he fantasized about changing the world with his magic? And had he been as heartbroken on his Claiming Day as she was bound to be on hers?

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to the Reverend Mother. “The Solon family is waiting for your student in the visitors’ chamber.”

Cerise blinked in surprise. What were her parents doing here? They had already visited her once during the last lunar cycle. She hadn’t expected them to return until her Claiming Day.

“Show them into the garden room and offer them a tray of refreshments.” The Reverend Mother lifted a hand to indicate Cerise’s bloodstained dress. “Their daughter will join them once she has made herself presentable.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And remove this”—pointing at the flamewinder venom—“to the arsenal, and this”—indicating the blood—“to the sacrificial altar.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

After the manservant filled two vials and carried them away, Cerise risked a glance at the Reverend Mother. “What will you tell them?”

“The truth, Cerise. Which I’m sure they would prefer hearing from you.”

That wasn’t the case. The last thing her parents wanted was the truth.

“Now go and change your dress,” the Reverend Mother said as she placed something warm and soft into Cerise’s hands. It was the rabbit kit, which had grown still—too still. “Calm yourself,” the Reverend Mother added with a sharp glance. “The creature is alive. Its heart was strained during the ordeal. Return it to the hutch, where it can rest.”

Cerise stroked the kit’s long ears. “Will it survive, Your Grace?”

Instead of answering, the Reverend Mother regarded a droplet of blood on a stone paver near the cage. She scrubbed the spot clean with the toe of her shoe and repeated, “Go and change your dress.”