The Ivory Rite

Chapter 46

My bedroom door closes behind us, shutting everyone else away. He and I are the only two people left in the entire world.

"Are you alright?" Adair demands, letting go of me. I look over at him, incredulous.

"What do you think?" My voice shakes. "How did we get here, Adair? How did this happen?" He frowns, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't know." He begins to pace. "I don't know, but it could be worse. He could have instituted a Royal Rite. That's what I thought he was going to do."

"A Royal Rite would be better than this," I whisper.

"No," he tells me, raising his voice. "Don't say that! Don't ever say that."

"I'm only one person, Adair. And I would've gotten the chance to fight. No one else gets the chance to fight! The ruler always gets to fight. At least you taught me how to fight..." I say the word 'fight' so many times it begins to sound wrong. It sounds like nonsense, like something I made up.

"He's going to choose one person a week?" I ask, as though it's possible I misunderstood. "Twice a year was torture. We're going to go through this once every seven days?"

"Only until the weather changes," he says, and I can tell from the look on his face that he knows how ridiculous he sounds.

"Do you believe it?" I ask him, perching on the edge of my bed. "Do you believe the Rite works? That it will do anything at all, other than spill blood?" He looks at me, opening his mouth to give me an answer that doesn't come.

"See?" I whisper, covering my face with my hands. "You know it's not real." I shake my head back and forth. "Death is the only thing that's real."

"You're right about that," he says, too softly.

Neither of us speaks for an unbearable amount of time, the clock ticking our lives away.

"I wasn't going to jump," I blurt out, needing to tell him.

"I know."

More silence. I have an ill-advised urge to tell him everything.

I want to tell him how I really feel about him.

I want to tell him about the prophesy: Twin of the slain, doomed to die before the New Year turns. Such a fate chosen to save another, to save one with blood which runs hotter than the martyr's own.

"Do you believe in fate?" I ask, the question materializing between us before I have a chance to stop it. He looks over at me, his eyes a mix of curiosity and confusion.

"I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Do you think our fates are predetermined? Or do a person's choices compound to produce an outcome not yet decided?" I tug at my hair, waiting for him to answer. It falls around my shoulders, the pins making a ting, ting, sound as they hit the white marble floor.

"There is a choice in everything we do, Diem. There is always a choice." He looks at me like he's trying to read my mind.

"Sometimes there is only one choice to make."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together. I can tell he's trying to be patient, trying to understand, but I can't answer him unless I lie.

I'm so sick of all the lies.

He crosses the room when I don't respond. Kneeling at my feet, he takes my hands in his and looks up into my eyes.

"You can tell me anything," he says. "Any damning thought you've had, any lie you've told, any crime." His green eyes appear darker than usual, reminding me of storm clouds, ones that could lay waste to an entire city. I reach out and push a piece of hair from his forehead in an attempt to get a better look.