24. TWO SUNS

Blade through chest.

Sunlight fills the room, golden, and it's like I'm back in heaven, the scene before me just another one of the Masked Mother's reenactments. That's not Miasma. That's not Ren.

That's not our empress, standing between them, Ren's sword through her chest.

Blood drips in the silence.

Then laughter gushes. Miasma's. Ren releases the hilt, as if burned, leaving Xin Bao with the blade in her. An image so wrong, but it can't be undone. Pulling it out would kill her—

Faster. Kill her faster.The empress is dying. Beyond saving. The floor tilts beneath me, and Cicada beats me to her senses. A dart flies; down goes the prime ministress. She laughs on, her delight overcoming even the poison, which must be working through her veins at the same time ours is counteracted. Sensation floods my chest—then pain, as I realize what this means for Ren. She's frozen. Utterly frozen. A bell tinkles—Xin Bao's, as she sways—and Ren finally moves, catching our empress.

She lays her on the ground.

The last of the poison leaves me; I stagger to my feet and cross the floorboards, eyes trained on the throne.

Nothing happens. The bowl of oil doesn't flip. The demonstration before must have been staged. How naturally we assumed that it'd be in Miasma's character to concoct this sadistic punishment.

She deceived us.

Xin Bao did too.

"Don't touch her," Ren growls when I kneel by the empress and push up one of her sleeves. I stop, but Ren has also seen. The truth is on Xin Bao's arms.

They're unmarked.

She was not bound. Never bound. Even if she was, she freed herself.

She chose to stand between death and Miasma.

"Why?" Ren croaks. "Did she threaten you?"

"You're so good, Aunt Ren."

Xin Bao's voice is high-pitched. Girlish. It's my first time hearing it in person. My first time seeing the empress in person.

I don't know what I expected, or what to feel.

Can't feel anything but numb.

"You really are so . . . good. Six years, you fought for me. For one decree. I hear . . . not once . . . did you covet . . ."

Xin Bao's eyes roll to the throne.

". . . my seat." Her voice is already fading. Ren reaches for her hand, then seems to notice the blood dripping from her own. Her outstretched fingers close, her fist crimson as the empress whispers, "I'm weak. The people know it . . . but they'd see it even more with you beside me. You . . . are a better me. A better Xin." A tremble of breath. "They'd have no need for me."

"Baomei—" The diminutive slips out, intimate and accidental like the blood that Ren drips onto the empress anyway. "I would have never—if the people think—" She breaks off, forcibly composes herself. "We can't control what the people think. Nor does it matter what they think." I don't know if she believes it, but she says it for the empress. "Only what you think matters. Only you. You sent me that message, your decree. Why didn't you retract it, if this is what you wanted?"

Must you ask for more hurt, Ren?Because Xin Bao has already answered. Maybe she genuinely wanted to be saved, at first. But as the seasons changed, so did her feelings. The more people Ren rallied around her cause, the more Xin Bao's insecurities blossomed. Miasma was oppressive, but Miasma could never be a true empress. Ren could. Be it at Miasma's behest, or by her own will, Xin Bao let the decree stand, let a cry for help become a lure, a trap.

Should there ever come a day when Ren actually made it to this hall, Xin Bao would know that it was time to end Ren or be ended herself.

"Why didn't you?" Ren repeats, and Xin Bao blinks, eyes wet. Blood ekes past her lips.

"I'm . . . sorry . . . Aunt . . . Ren . . ."

My numbness shatters. How dare she address Ren with so much familiarity?

How dare she, after betraying the one person who has fought for her?

When Ren doesn't speak, doesn't reject or accept the apology, Xin Bao's gaze rolls away from her and up to the ceiling, to the gold, cobalt, and vermilion beams of a man-made heaven. "In the next life . . . I don't want to be . . . born an empress."

She stares until she sees no more.

"What will you do now, Ren?" Miasma again. She lies beside Cloud, paralyzed all but for her tongue and mouth. "What, oh what, will you do? I know what. You'll run away from the people. You'll leave the throne empty, and this land will suffer another decade of fighting, all because you won't be able to live with yourself."

Miasma laughs—and falls quiet after Cicada shoots her with a second dart, the paralysis finally taking full effect.

Ren.I want to go to her, but can't as Crow. I could have asked Miasma about Plum's whereabouts, but can't do that now either. I can only watch as Cicada puts another dart to her shooter and aims it at Cloud, sending a stir through Ren.

"Cicada—"

"It's the antidote," the Southlands queen says, and fires.

Seconds later, Cloud groans. Moves, slowly, onto her knees.

She shuffles, toward Ren, still kneeling as well.

She presses her forehead to the floor before our lordess.

"Kill me, Ren." I stop breathing, my heart splitting as Cloud says, "I made you do this. If not to save me, our empress wouldn't—"

"Stop, Cloud."

"And Lotus—she also died to save me—"

"Cloud." Ren clutches Cloud's bowed head. "You didn't make me do anything. Do you understand? I did this alone, and I'd do it again for anyone I consider family. That's you, Cloud." Cloud's shoulders shake with sobs, and I look away, eyes burning. Cloud is family, but Xin Bao was family too. We all know Ren wouldn't have hesitated to sacrifice herself for the empress; we all feel her grief as she comforts Cloud through it. "And Lotus, Cloud? She'd peel both our hides if she saw you in the afterlife. She'd want you to live, and live well."

Cloud's sobs heave huge and ugly, and Ren's head turns to the side, her brow furrowed, eyes shut, tears confined. Slowly, she removes her hands from Cloud. She moves back to Xin Bao, closes the girl's eyes, and pulls out her sword. She stands, and I find myself standing too, wanting to support her as she sways. Help her, Cloud!

But Cloud's head remains bowed.

Shaking, bleeding, Ren faces Cicada. "Let's end this."

Her sword drips, bathed in blood like Ren herself.

You promised.

This time, I hear the voice as if it's really in my head.

Crow? Are you here?

Whether or not he is, I did promise him. Cicada didn't hurt Ren, and I owe it to Crow to protect his lordess from hurt as well, even if I don't know how. I step toward Ren, stopping as she throws her sword. It lands between her and Cicada, streaking blood onto the wood.

Thegestureisheranswer.Weaponless,wounded,Renconcedes. Cicada is free to take whatever she wants, be it the sword or the throne. Ren has no desire for either.

"Ren . . . ," rasps Cloud, drawn up by the clang. She stares at her swornsister while I stare at the sword, then the lordess I serve. I chose her over my god-sisters. Happiness—I want that for her. But will this make Ren happy? Or will she come to regret her choice?

"Miasma was right about something," Cicada finally says after a pause. "If you leave the throne empty, more wars will erupt as others seek to claim it. The people will know no peace."

"There's you."

The words fall from Ren's lips. So easy, so quick.

Silence resounds in their wake.

Cicada's gaze surveys the throne hall. "I always dreamed of standing here. A dream greater than my sister dared. I've traded things and people to get this far." She glances to me. "I don't want to trade more." She looks to Ren. "This journey made me realize I have no interest in living in the North. It's too cold, and the people are crude. But you don't see them that way," she says as Ren's lips part. "So stay. Forget that you slayed the empress."

"And deceive the people."

"As if you haven't already. Are you really Ren the Righteous every second of the day? No, but that's how the people see you. All symbols are lies, and all rulers are symbols. That's what it is to rule. To be someone you're not. Kingdom over self. Fears hidden behind wants."

"What do you want for the South?"

"Sovereignty."

Gasps would be going through the court, if there were officials present.

Instead it's just Ren, her voice somber and quiet. "You're still young. You ask for sovereignty now, but in a few years, you might want more." Her eyes lower to her own bloodstained hands. "You might change."

"You might too," Cicada says without hesitation. "If you become a tyrant, I'll expose you. I'll tell everyone it was you who killed Xin Bao, not Miasma."

"Miasma didn't—"

"She did," insists Cicada, "and after your coronation, you'll execute her for it."

I hear the decree as it might spread through the realm.

Xin Ren, our worthy empress, putting down the tyrant who slayed Xin Bao.

The Ren I know wouldn't agree to this lie—or would she? For the soldiers, the orphans, the masses uprooted by our warpath, she would. But even if her reason is noble, will she be able to bear the guilt? I don't know. I want to discount Miasma's words, but they stay, echoing through my skull as Ren rasps, "War is no good for the people. I hope we can agree on this."

"Agreed." Cicada puts her dart shooter away. "Let's prove that this heaven can have more than one sun."

She holds out her hand, an invitation.

Ren doesn't take it. "I'd like a moment."

"Of course." Cicada glances to me, and even though it's the last thing I want to do, I follow her. Over the threshold, out of the throne hall, onto the pavilion. Cicada descends the steps. I linger on the topmost one.

I look over my shoulder.

The open wall frames them so perfectly, the scene between the columns like a painting, one that I've carried in my head this entire journey. Miasma, defeated. Cloud, still here.

Ren, at Xin Bao's side.

She kneels in the empress's blood, spread out larger than the scarlet imperial robes, and stares at Xin Bao like she doesn't know what to make of her, this goal that she's lived for, would have died for, only to have it die before her.

My legs weaken.

"Senge?" In the distance, I hear Cicada call for me.

The ground rises up as I collapse upon it.

What is this?If it's not the poison, then is it Crow's consumption? The consequences of being struck by lightning? This body finally retaliating after all the abuse it's taken? As I wonder, something glimmers in the sky above me. Two arches. The shapes of serpents. I hear her voice.

Time to pay.

No—it's too soon.

I didn't agree to this, three months ago . . . did I?