Through the Eye of the Occultist (Work in Progress)

Note: Will be updated according to the author's writing progress.

Prologue

The princess had dark flowing brunette hair, whispering in the breeze that laced the evening night. In the shadow of her willowy, tall stature, the palace loomed like a carved gem in the night, over the tops of fir trees in the princess’s wake, leading to the clearing. 

A light snow was gently falling, lining the princess’s ermine fur cloak that lay over her fine white silk gown, with many layers of red ruffles adorning the large skirt as it erupted from the bodice to the ground. Pure snow, feathering the dew-kissed blades of grass, the top of the trees, and the princess’s head.

The princess was waiting. 

The hours dragged by, the snow building into a howling blizzard, and the princess waited, never twitching or denting in her tall stand. 

The princess was waiting.

It was nearly midnight when something eventful happened. The large honk of a brassy trumpet pierced the night air. And out of the trees, a myriad of people fanned out into the clearing. It was a curious sort of parade of people, some holding drums, some holding weapons, some holding lamps. Bodyguards armed to the teeth bordered the procession, and in the very center, a palanquin sheltered from the snow, dripping with squashy pillows and carpets.

The procession halted.

The princess was waiting.

And then, several minutes later, a huff of exasperated annoyance came from within the palanquin, and a few seconds later, the queen emerged, carefully setting her satin slippers into the grass with a shudder. 

As the queen made her way towards the princess, it was evident that she was quite persnickety, and was alarmed every time she touched snow, and whimpered at every blade of grass poking her, and yelped when she stopped, in front of the princess, and a glance behind her told her that her long, long train had dragged several twigs along with her.

The princess was waiting.

After  several minutes of servants rushing forward to adjust the queen’s ornaments and she was satisfied and comfortable, she finally rose to face the princess.

The princess spoke first, in a slithery sort of voice, a little lower than average, like a snake slipping over honey. It had an air of sinisterness, but it was natural, as if the princess always spoke that way. “Hello, and send Myriellt my regards.”

The queen stared at the princess for a long time before responding. Her voice was high and a little snappy, clipping off each word. Despite the queen’s youth, it sounded like how an aggravated tight-strung grandmother might speak. “My subjects have me to rule over Myriellt, thank you very much.” She glowered at the princess. “Tea?” She said it somewhat aggressively, as if tea was a particularly nasty punishment administered on her part.

The princess gave a honey-sweet smile. “I’d love to. What better time than at the stroke of midnight? But answer me first,” she continued, dropping her sarcasm, which she’d employed with expertise, which suggested that sarcasm was her main mode of speaking. “Why keep me waiting for so long?”

  The  queen stared again at the princess for a long time before responding. Then, she said haltingly, “I have my reasons. And you are in no position to order me.”

Now it was the princess’s turn to pause. Her poker face was legendary in Altheal, and it was impossible to guess what she was thinking. Then, a slow, slow menacing smile spread over her face. It transformed her. She wasn’t pretty and quiet anymore. She looked like a viper, ready to strike. “Oh, a fighting spirit,” she purred. “How lovely.” A cold, glazed look kindled in her eyes. “But I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You’ve never met anyone like me.”

Then the world exploded in flames.

Chapter 1

“Nyxx!”

Groaning, I rolled over, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.  When I came to, I saw Mehganne bouncing on my thick checkered blanket, kneading me awake. “Wassup, Meh-Meh,” I muttered dully.

“It’s time to get up!” my younger sister’s shrill voice chirped. Her pale, round cheeks were flushed in the dreary early morning gray. I felt it too, the breeze whispering in my hair, snaking in through the semi-closed door. Mother must’ve opened a window. She was shivering slightly, but her bright green eyes were always bubbly, matching her nature. Her russet-walnut brown hair was in two twin messy pigtails. Had she tried to do it herself? Did she even know how to do it herself?

Moaning at the gray world wrapped loosely around me, I slowly rose, propping myself up with one elbow.  “Ok.” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The world was waiting for me, ready was I or not. Or rather, the underground city. Or, rather, the school. The school headmistress would not be pleased if I was late. 

Mehganne was already dressed in her lower school uniform, a navy blue ponte-knit jumper dress with a snug white shirt underneath. Her Mary Jane shoes clacked on the oak hardwood floor as she did a little hop, up and down. “Come on, breakfast is ready! It’s oatmeal today.” With that, she scampered away. 

Mumbling, I slowly forced myself to set my bare feet on the frigid floor, and stumbled to put on my slippers. 

I shut the door, then started shuffling around in my wardrobe. The clothes were piling up, as tomorrow was rest day in the  souterra, so Mother could wash my clothes. I picked out a clean uniform, and slipped out of my pajamas into them. I walked over to the mirror and stared at myself.

A girl with straight, dark auburn hair, mint-green eyes, and a pale, pale face smattered with freckles across the nose stared back at me. Her black short, pleated a-line skirt fell to a little above her knees, and she wore a white short-sleeved blouse shirt, with a peter-pan collar and a bowtie adding the final touch. 

I tugged on the longest, thickest pair of white stockings, leaving only the brief spot of my knees uncovered. Judging from the cool breeze, it would be a cold day. Then, I walked out of the room, and into the kitchen.

Mother sat at the table, her mahogany-brown hair in a hasty braided bun. She never wore makeup, unless it was a special occasion. In my opinion, it did not make her look better. Her eyes were like mine, a very light green, and she had a tall stature. She always looked weary. She worked from seven in the AM to eight in the PM–a full day’s work as a waitress in Letourraine, the most popular restaurant in the area. But still, every hour spent with us was a highlight in her day, she’d said. She was combing out Mehganne’s curls to redo her pigtails, and behind her, there was a boiling pot and steaming kettle on the kitchenette’s stove. 

She looked up, and smiled tiredly at me. “Morning, Nyxx,” she said. “The oatmeal’s nearly ready. I’m afraid you might be late.” 

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “We can take the leftovers from yesterday.” 

Mother rubbed her temples, looking a bit scruffy in the dull morning cold. She also looked stressed and worried, as if what I said had just added to a long list of problems for her. “That’s unsanitary,” she muttered. Then she looked at me and Mehganne. We always looked slender – almost everyone’s children in the souterra did – because while we had enough to eat, food was still thin. “Alright,” she said, relenting. “I put the quail eggs in ponzu sauce in the fridge.” She went back to braiding Mehganne’s hair. 

Striding over to the kitchenette, I hastily stopped the screaming kettle from boiling over, then opened the small fridge and pulled out a jar of ponzu sauce, with several cooked quail eggs soaked in the thick, slightly fermented liquid. I poured the stained eggs out, and using a flat wooden ladle, beat it furiously until it resembled a mashed yellow substance, with pieces of egg still intact. After putting a bit of mayonnaise on the mashed eggs, I rolled it into bread and slid a piece of lettuce in. Then I repeated the process. 

Pouring a mug of steaming chai for Mother, I set the cup down and handed one roll to Mehganne. “Come on, we don’t want to be late,” I reminded her.

Mother nodded her agreement. “Have a nice day. You can eat the egg rolls on the way.” She kissed us both goodbye. “Work hard.” 

I slipped into my own Mary Janes and put on my blue capelet coat, then forced Mehganne into her own (“It’s a coat!” she wailed, pointing at her dress. “It’s a dress!” I snapped). Then I dragged her out the front door, waving to Mother. 

There were only two residential buildings in the souterra, mostly because of our numbers. The two buildings were big,  though, and connected. Our dyarisma was on the penthouse floor, on the West Wing. Stepping out, I took a bite of the near-tasteless egg roll, and urged a slightly grumpy Mehganne to eat hers.

At the same time, across from us, another door opened, and Lillysa stepped out. Her straight, light honey-blonde hair fell down to her elbows, and her brown eyes were disgruntled. Her fringy bangs were growing longer, but she hadn’t needed to cut them for several months on end. She was holding a small plastic plate and plastic fork, poised over a granola-sprinkled gritty pudding.

It made me kind of annoyed to see her holding such a thing for an impromptu–and just as hasty as mine–breakfast. She wasn’t even living here; she was staying with a non-biological family for the time being. Why she was here, and not with her living parents, she’d never say. It was certainly safer there, a whole world’s way apart, in Niastre Bay, the prosperous town sprawling from up the hills to the sea. where all magical races were welcome. But the Prinethe family was notoriously rich, and notoriously snobby. They never struck me, though, as someone who’d waste so much money on a simple breakfast for someone…not related to them.

Really, though, why the heck did I care? I certainly wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t that rich, but I was happy and content, and that was all I needed.

“Nyxx Alcastere, right?” said Lillysa, in her booming, sweeping voice that reminded me of a velvet cloak dragging over marble floors. She took a munch of her breakfast pudding. Her uniform was essentially the same as mine, but there were tiny, subtle touchés that my practiced eye could see: her blouse top had white lace embroidered on the sateen fabric that resembled a dragon–the Prinethe crest, not the school crest, and the bowtie was silk instead. Another one was that she wasn’t wearing the same socks as me–they were shorter, more expensive knit dance socks, although she didn’t even dance. It looked like her legs were bare, like mine, but a closer inspection told me that she was wearing flesh-colored tights. 

You ain’t no ballerina, I wanted to snap.

“Yes,” I said coldly, instead. “And you’re…?”

She probably knew that I knew exactly who she was, but I didn’t care. I wanted to see her and the snobby Prinethes humbled, even if it was just pretending not to know her name. Always loud, flaunting things without even speaking about them, blurting out and not getting punished; she was on everyone at school’s nerves.

“Lillysa Grenté,” she said, without the slightest inclination that she was disappointed. “Do you want to walk to school with me? Mrs. Albotesn won’t  be pleased if I’m late.”

I silently fumed over the small barb. She won’t be pleased if you’re late? 

But saying no to a Prinethe would be a very bad idea, so I just gritted my teeth and nodded, gesturing to Mehganne.

Chapter 2

It’s awful to see the whole descyrus glaring at you as if you’ve done something horribly wrong.

Is it horribly wrong to just be born a witch, I ask you? The correct answer is no.

My skinny hands and ankles were bound in heavy manacles that forced me to crouch, almost sitting, on the cold steel cage floor. It was like every tiny detail was meant to humiliate me. To humiliate everyone who was cuffed; everyone who was a “secondary-classed citizen.”

The glaring sunlight stabbed relentlessly down at me, heating everything. My throat was parched as I struggled to remember the last time that I’d drank anything except for watery, shapeless gray gruel.

There was only one word that resonated, over and over, in my half-insane mind.

Anallaé. Anallaé.

Get to Anallaé.

Until I could barely think anymore. Until I was fighting to stay conscious. 

“Hear ye, hear ye!” roared a man, slicing through my reverie as he marched onto the platform where the cage was, people goggling at us all around. He pulled out a scroll from nowhere and started reading off of it. “The youngest of the convicted witches we obtained after a successful raid on their haven” – he spat – “haven no more–will be sent to an orphanage. They will grow until they are of twelve to sixteen years of age, and then they will turn into maids of households. Those above that age currently will be executed immediately. The witches who are of maid age right now, along with those who will later become maids, will be inspected for their skill when they reach the threshold of seventeen. The government will decide whether they are to live, or die. If they are allowed to live, they will remain servants all their lives.” His face was set grimly, which prompted me to wonder if this job was the one he had truly  chosen. 

“We shall start,” he continued. “Escort those immediately who are seventeen and older to the prison, where they will languish till their death date. And take the girls who are eleven and under to the courtroom, where they will decide the orphanage. And then we shall begin auctioning maids.”

I squeezed Quinn’s hands. She was nine, and I would not see her again. She would be dragged away in a minute, out of my life. Forever. I hugged her. “Be brave,” I whispered fiercely.  “Be so, so brave. I love you to pieces; I love you so hard and so much that my heart is overflowing and don’t you ever forget that. Don’t ever forget that someday, I will break free of the chains that bind us, and I will find you and free you. I will always be there in spirit with you. I will always love you. Forever.” She yelped as a guard seized her from her back collar. I hugged her one last time. “Don’t ever forget how much I love you. Always remember, I will come to free you someday. Keep singing, my beautiful songbird.”

And then she was gone.

My heart was bleeding, blood gushing out of it, as if it might drain and lose everything. All my memories with her. Hundreds of walks to school, thousands of heaps of laughter and smiling. Millions of moments, twined together, my hand in hers. And the government had stabbed it out of me. Life slowly ebbed out of me, as she ebbed out of me.

And I refused to cry.

Each girl was pushed to a standing position, and we stood, the chains lowering our heads, the sun growling on our backs, in a line, with people crowding around us, inspecting us.

“Now!” announced the man. “We will begin. Ten girls in this age range, given to the top ten highest bidders. Now then.”

The man heard all the values, and began to haggle. But I didn’t hear it.

It was calling again.

Anallaé. Anallaé.

Get to Anallaé.

And perhaps other things as well.

Can you hear me, sister? It’s me. Can you hear me? I’m stuck in this courtroom, it’s stuffy and dark, and I think they made it that way on purpose.

Four people are shouting at each other, and the manacles are so heavy, and I think they’re just making us sit there out of spite. 

I miss you.

I’m sorry how this has turned out.

I tapped into the other consciousness that seemed to be feeding me information. No. I should’ve protected you more.

We were all doomed, it responded. We couldn’t have ever done anything.

And it was gone, then, leaving me cold and alone, left to the everpresent song of pain and necessity.

It had only five words, repeating, over and over again.

Anallaé. Anallaé.

Get to Anallaé.

Everything after that was fuzzy, until I was sold off.

“Bidder number seven,” said the man. “Antoinette DuVrese.” People jostled when they heard her name, but she sounded unfamiliar to me. He pointed at me, and the guards pushed me forward, ushering me off the stage. 

And then I saw her. I saw Antoinette DuVrese. My future boss. My boss.

She looked remarkably like Marie Anoinette, the French queen. Maybe that was why she was named that. Her gray, curly hair frizzed everywhere in the exact same flamboyant pouf hairstyle, thick and piled up on top of each other. Her pointed face sagged a little, and was covered in flap-like wrinkles. Her narrow gray eyes were sharp, in spite of her age.

She coughed, and I could immediately tell she was a crotchety, persnickety lady. Then, she spoke, in a snappy, high-strung voice. “So, this is to be my servant?” she said, sniffing, and looking me over. “Hmph. Very well. Let’s go.” She stabbed her sharp, I mean sharp, red nails into my raggedy sleeve and dragged me away from the crowd. She turned to speak to me as she walked. “You will address me as Madame. And you will obey every request I make of you, whether it be cooking, cleaning, or some other maidly art. You understand?”

“Y-yes,” I mumbled. 

We reached her elaborate carriage. She made me sit in front, outside of the sheltered part, on the same bench as the coach. He was dressed Gordon, and had a monocle over one eye. As we drove off, he tipped his tall hat to me. “Good afternoon, Ms…” 

“Um,” I said. Why was he treating me this way? I was a witch and a maid. “You can call me Lily.”

“Ah, like the beautiful flower?” he said. He had a decidedly thick, rounded accent to his words. “Lovely. Well, good afternoon, Ms. Lily.” 

“Why are you treating me so nice?” I burst out. “I’m a witch. And Antoinette DuVrese’s–I mean Madame’s–maid.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone deserve a fair chance? In my opinion, being a witch does not downgrade you. You may have strange abilities, but you are still human, and your thoughts are quite similar, I think, to a normal girl of your age.”

We were quiet as the big, brown stallion clomped down the cobblestone lane. I wondered if I would be having this weird conversation with Antoinette’s coach if my witch town had decided to go underground and join the souterra neighborhoods, instead of staunchly remaining hidden, but above ground.

Then, I remembered him, and spoke. “What about you? What’s your name?”

“Ah, my name,” he said, twirling his brown mustache. In my opinion, he rather looked like the horse, as if the two had a brother-to-brother bond. “You may call me Walters, although that is not my true name. I had a name somewhat like Walters, in a different language, but Madame has made me change it.”

“She can do that?” I said, gasping.

He shrugged. “Indeed, she can. And I have long dropped being bitter, for at least Madame is the one who supplies me with a living. I live in the stagecoach little hut on her grounds, next to the horse stable. And she gives me a small salary, which enables me to buy my food.”

To Be Continued....

(Title May Also Change Later On.)