Blood drips from my nose onto the rug. The rug looks new. I grin around a split lip, hoping it is. I wonder how many blood stains it covers. This room, like the rest of the palace is made of black Kaur, the only wood able to withstand the fires of the fourth. In my childhood, I had named this the torture tower. The circular room had no openings to the outside, probably so nobody could hear the screams.
Mother and Uncle Cassius sit on the viewing balcony, have watched my punishment. Cassuis’ laughter is still ringing in my ears. I am glad he has not joined in the beating, he likes to hit the same spot over and over.
“Thank you, Rian. You will do well here,” Mother calls down. The guard still standing behind me steps back into place around the rounded walls of the room.
My confusion at the lightness of my beating clears. Rian was probably rather shocked at having to beat the Tatuma on his first day in the Elite.
I place my hands on my knees, pushing into standing. I always do this because I am convinced it angers mother. Like the blood on the rug, it is a small act of defiance. The only size manageable under her rule. I tilt my head back as my Uncle walks to the front of the balcony, willing him to fall over the side and land on his head. Imagining his demise is one of my favourite pastimes.
Cassius is tall, taller than my mother. They have both aged well, though I know it’s not all real. Olandon told me mother colours her chestnut hair with berries. Still, both of their faces are sculptured and they each have deep brown eyes. They would have been stunning in their youth.
“Be grateful for the Tatum’s continued mercy,” Uncle Cassius booms. I roll my eyes, but bow to my mother seated on the Throne behind him. I turn on my heel and stride out of the opened door with my head high and only slightly limping. There are several things I’d like to say, but having learnt this was a good way to get beaten again, I keep my lips pressed together. A tapping sounds at the door not long after I’ve reached my room. I toss the coarse material of my veil deftly over my head, already knowing who it will be. I grab the wooden band next to the washing bowl and push it down over my head. Feeling for the ends of the veil to check it is in place.
Olandon stands outside, his dark robes blending into the shadows.
When I crack the door open to admit him, his gaze moves immediately to the bloody water on the stand. My room is so bare it is impossible to miss.
He stands in front of the opening. I watch the light between his fingers disappear as he clenches his hands.
“I am fine Landon,” I reassure.
“I am sure you are,” he says, jerking his hand in the direction of the bloody mess. I glare at the damning bowl. I hated worrying my brother, but this wasn’t my only concern. The older Olandon got, the harder it was to convince him not to stand between mother and I. So far he had respected my wishes. I had no wish for the wrath of my mother to be turned on him.
I shrug. “The guard who beat me was new, his heart was not in it,” I say and move forward to sit on the chest.
I watch him run his hands through his hair. I cannot see it, but I know it is black. The same colour as mine, though his is short and mine falls to my waist when undone. After washing it in the springs, I confine it in a braided bun at the base of my neck. The similarities ended there. I was a year older, but my brother already towered over me. This height difference between male and female was normal on our world.
“Fight back,” he says. I sigh at the old argument, but I think of how I’d feel if I were in his position. “We could do it together.”
“Tell me what would happen if I fought back. If we fought back,” I say.
He falls silent, we both know what would happen. Exile or death.
Before I can stop him, Olandon stands and punches the wall. He draws back his fist again and I rush in to grab it on the backswing. I turn the rest of his body towards me and rub a hand over his grazed knuckles.
“One bruised person is enough,” I say, mostly to myself. I walk to the opening to spare him any embarrassment, hearing his breath is catching a little.
I lean my head on the side of the opening and look out at the Kaur forest. I take as deep a breath as my bruised ribs will allow and renew my silent vow to be impenetrable like them. Mother will not destroy me, or her insane brother. I will survive this and when I rule, it will all be worth it.
“I hate seeing them do this to you. How much can you bear before you break?” He must be truly upset to have asked me outright.
I place a hand on his arm. “I am strong. They have not succeeded yet.”
The stiffening of his shoulders tells me what he thinks of this reply. I know what he needs.
“Thank you for being here brother,” I say and put my arms around him. He sighs after a minute and hugs me gently. “Always Lina.”
Once he is gone, I walk over to the fan and pull one of the weighted cords to start its motion. The bouncing weights create their familiar rhythmic thudding sound in time with the throbbing in my jaw. There is not really enough smoke yet to warrant the fans use, but I find the regular thudding soothing.
When I finally fall into an exhausted sleep, I have wonderful dreams of a life without my mother.