LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

at passersby. But one remained shrouded, a black cloth draped over it. This was the pedestal of Hurell, the God of Suffering, who had warred with the other gods and ushered in the dark ages in Epoca.

      Like most modern citizens of Epoca, Pretia didn’t actually believe in the gods. They were myths, stories from long ago, a way to explain the culture of the land. If she hadn’t grown up in the castle, where they were obliged to keep the old traditions alive, she wouldn’t have thought about them at all.

      Usually Pretia sprinted through the hall, but today she moved more slowly, looking at each bust in turn. Maybe, just maybe, if she prayed to the Gods of Granity, her grana would come. She approached the large copper bowl that held the Granity Flame—the eternal fire that the people of Epoca had sworn they would never let die. It was from this flame that the Epic Torch was lit every fourth year to signal the start of the Epic Games.

      Pretia took a thin willow twig from a wooden box and held it to the flame until it ignited. Then she walked down the hall, lighting the fragrant oil in the ceremonial holder that was carved into the pedestal in front of the bust of each god. She whispered their names in turn as she went: Cora, Metus, Somni, Reva, Menti, Prosi, Dominu—Love, Fear, Dreams, Reality, Mind, Process, and Ego.

      Each time the oil in front of one of the gods sprang to life with an orange flame, Pretia uttered the same prayer. It was a version of a prayer she’d overheard some of the Epic Athletes saying before their competition: “In exchange for this flame, grant me the grace of grana so that I might serve my country and uphold the Epic tradition.” Seven times she uttered this prayer until she reached the end of the hall.

      Still holding the burning willow twig, Pretia looked back at the seven small flames lighting up the marble busts and making shadows dance on the walls. Only Hurell’s shrouded column was dark. Without a second thought she found herself walking back down the hall and dipping the burning willow into the brass bowl in front of Hurell’s covered statue. Praying to Hurell had been forbidden since the end of the Dark Age of Suffering and the start of the Age of Grana. But no one really prayed to any of the gods anymore. So what did it really matter?

      Pretia held her breath and lowered the flaming willow. In an instant a ghostly silver flame sprang to life. She jumped back as the flame climbed high, illuminating the black cloth draped over the marble head of Hurell. “Hurell,” she whispered, “God of Suffering. In exchange for this flame, grant me the grace of grana so that I might serve my country and uphold the Epic tradition.”

      Pretia stared at the leaping flame, fascinated and a little frightened by what she had done. As she watched the silvery flame lick the walls of its holder, she heard footsteps approaching from the Grand Atrium. Panicked, Pretia looked for a way to extinguish the fire in the ceremonial bowl—some water or a cloth. But she saw none. Even though people didn’t really believe all the old stuff about the gods anymore, it was still strictly forbidden to pray to Hurell. It was one of the gravest crimes in Epoca.

      The footsteps were getting closer now. With no other option, Pretia sprinted away as fast as she could before someone caught her at her mischief—up two flights of marble stairs, down a colonnade, and into her bedroom, where the light winds were blowing her white linen curtains inward like billowing ghosts.

      Pretia tore off her party dress, kicked off her fancy sandals, found her favorite shorts and shirt, then flung herself down on her bed, out of breath.

      Someone had already piled her gifts in her sitting room. But she only squeezed her eyes shut, focusing all her energy on the burning flames she had lit. Maybe, just maybe, the gods would grant her wish.

      There was a tapping on the door to her bedroom. “Pretia?”

      Pretia heard the door open before the large curtain that divided her bedroom from her sitting room was pulled back. Anara—her nurse, her babysitter, and her closest confidante—stood at the foot of her bed, her arms crossed over her chest in mock anger. Anara’s long blond hair, now with the first threads of gray streaking away from her temples, was braided and wound around her head like a crown. She wore a simple dark blue dress—the color of House Relia, Queen Helena’s house. Anara’s movements were gentle and slow, and Pretia often thought that she looked like she had come from another planet entirely, so different was she from the rest of the inhabitants of Epoca, who were devoted to the world of competitive sports. She was like a fairy in a world of dragons.

      “Are you worn out from your birthday celebrations?” Anara asked, sitting at the edge of Pretia’s bed.

      Pretia opened her mouth to explain—but how could she? How could she tell Anara, without coming across as a spoiled princess, that she wasn’t worn out, but rather disappointed. And a little bit bored.

      “It’s okay,” Anara said, stroking Pretia’s hair. “I understand.”

      That was one of the things Pretia liked best about Anara. She often didn’t have to explain anything to her. Her nurse just knew what she was thinking, kind of like magic. Sometimes, Pretia thought there actually was something a little bit mystical about Anara. In addition to being her nurse, Anara was a Flamekeeper, which meant she had sworn an oath to keep the old ways of the Gods of Granity alive. Pretia often wondered if this gave Anara a closer connection to a world that hovered just out of sight.

      “Were you wondering why I hadn’t given you a gift?” Anara asked.

      Pretia glanced over at the towering pile of presents guiltily. She hadn’t noticed. But before she could apologize, Anara pulled out a box from behind her back. “Happy birthday, Pretia.”

      Pretia took the package. It was wrapped in old foil paper and tied with blue and purple ribbons—the color of each of her parents’ houses. Although Anara was a Realist, she always respected Pretia’s mixed heritage, even if most other people didn’t. Pretia carefully untied the ribbons and pulled away the paper. Inside, she found a box. She opened the top. Her eyes widened in delight.

      She was holding in her hands the most beautiful pair of golden sneakers she had ever seen—a pair of Grana Gleams. “Anara,” she cried, flinging her arms around her nurse. “Thank you!”

      “Aren’t you going to put them on?”

      Pretia slipped on the golden shoes. They fit like they had been made for her, which they probably had.

      “Many centuries ago, not long after the gods granted us grana, a merchant traveling to the country of Tanis in the continent of Alkebulan returned with a barrel of their most sacred rubber,” Anara explained. “The soles of these shoes are made from the last rubber left from that barrel. Only twenty pairs were produced.”

      The shoes felt cool like quicksilver, and the golden leather sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. Pretia sat back down on her bed.

      “So what are you waiting for?” Anara asked.

      “They’re beautiful,” Pretia said. “They’re the most beautiful shoes in the world. But—”

      “But what?”

      “What’s the point of running shoes if I don’t have grana?” Pretia asked.

      Anara stroked Pretia’s hair again. “Pretia, your grana will come.”

      “That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” Pretia said.

      And it was true—everyone was concerned with Pretia’s grana, from the members of the high council to the Epic Priests down to her own parents. Because if she didn’t have grana, she couldn’t rule Epoca. This law had been written ages ago in the Scrolls of Epoca—the contract between the gods and men signed in exchange for peace in the land. But Pretia cared less about that than she did about one other thing—no grana meant no sports, because without grana she stood no chance against anyone, not least of all against an Epic Athlete. Without grana, she’d never be able to compete.

      “Don’t you want to try them out?” Anara asked.

      “Of course,” Pretia said. But here was another problem. Who could she play sports with? No one. Her life was filled with dull tutored lessons on Epoca Law and

Скачать книгу