Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Despite their best attempt to keep a clamp on the hysteria, news spreads in an instant.

Heavens knows how, given the palace is on lockdown. Yet the whispers travel beyond their doors, hit the streets before the clock can strike the new hour. San-Er has never been built for wide-scale chaos. The most it can handle is the king’s games: a handful of players across the millions, uncaring of governance because all but one will be wiped out by the month’s end anyhow. It used to be that anyone who disrupted the twin cities met a quick fate. The palace guards easily outnumbered the small outbursts. They would put a stop to the fuss, and San-Er would release a breath of relief that the clog in its arteries had been unblocked.

“Main thoroughfare is entirely gridlocked,” Galipei reports into his field radio. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

This time, it is a spontaneous eruption. Civilian after civilian, streaming out from their homes in the only display of discontent they are capable of. San-Er wants answers. They want a king chosen by the heavens. A king confirmed by the heavens. Without the crown’s mandate, they haven’t had a real kingdom since the war with Sica, and this is a terrifying prospect—as though the sky has fallen and the ground crumbles under every step. Without the crown’s mandate, they may have tolerated a cruel monarchy for no reason other than someone’s sly tricks centuries ago on Talin’s first mass migration into the twin cities.

“We still have most of the guards waiting at the coliseum. Should we move some numbers?” one of his cousins responds on the radio.

“Stay where you are,” Galipei says. “Let this run its course. Keeping the palace clear is most important.”

From above, the crowd looks like a dark sea of heads. The last time there was movement of equal scale, a false alarm was screeching across San-Er, warning of flash floods that never came. That had been easy to fix. Easy enough to wave people back into their homes. Galipei was at the forefront of controlling the riots before the king’s games too—the disgruntled residents asking for the cash prize to be equally distributed among those in need, asking for some solution to the hospital beds that were already full—and all the palace guard needed to do was herd them into a corner, then pluck them off the streets.

Galipei strains to hear the answer coming in on the receiver. Tonight, they can’t exactly put everyone in a jail cell as King Kasa would’ve dictated. They would run out of jail cells.

“—hear it? They’re—calling.”

Galipei lowers the antenna and pulls the crackling field radio away from his ear. The people may have formed this protest on their own, but there is only one group in the twin cities with the organizational capability to take charge and make use of the circumstances. The Crescent Societies have been spreading word of their next goals: flock to the palace, keep resisting until the throne falls. Their battle call echoes down the thoroughfare, one wave after the other.

“ No throne without mandate. No throne without proof! ”

It’s not that every resident in the twin cities has suddenly adopted Crescent Society anarchy. But give the masses a tangible reason to show their resentment, and they will take it. Give the Crescent Societies these numbers to use in chaos, and they will throw people at the palace like explosives to get in.

They have to disperse these protests before the Crescent Societies can take a firm hold.

“Crescent Society members are starting to jump. Suspected invasions on some guards. We need to get a handle on this now .”

Galipei brings the radio close to his mouth. “Execute any Crescent Society jumpers immediately. No argument. We don’t have cell space.”

There’s agreement and disagreement at instantaneous synchrony. Different units, different opinions. Times like these, he almost wishes Leida were still here. That they had one person making decisions.

“Some of them are still using what Leida taught—”

“We don’t know if they’ve jumped without light—”

“Don’t we need to clear executions with the council—”

Without a true crown, it is easy for unrest to reach a boiling point. The civilians whisper about their last cruel king and how he could have been allowed by their heavens to rule. If he wore the true crown, they say, Kasa would have lost the mandate while he governed so cruelly. August is the heir to a dynasty that should have been discarded. August should have been rejected at his coronation.

If there is one thing the Crescent Societies know how to do, it’s seizing an opportunity in a power vacuum.

“August has ordered it,” Galipei snaps, making the decision for him. He knows August, for better or for worse. “Get a move on and prepare palace proceedings to find the true crown. The last thing we need is some fucking farmer in Rincun putting it on and claiming the throne.”

The noise outside the palace is audible from the halls.

Calla slows by a window, peering through the night to catch a glimpse of the crowds. There’s not much to be seen from this part of the south wing, though she can envision what the streets must look like. Impatience presses at her palms; she desires the grip of her sword. She nudges the glass, curious if the noise seems loud because it isn’t closed properly, but the window doesn’t budge.

“Highness.”

The voice echoes from the far stairwell, sounding surprised to find Calla standing here, prodding a random south-wing window.

“I’m convinced everyone keeps calling me Highness to remind the council that they ought to get rid of me before I launch a coup for the throne.”

Calla pushes at the corner of the glass. Ah. It’s sealed down to the frame.

“Hmm. Well.” Venus Hailira strides over with a preciousness in her steps, like she can’t quite bear to set her feet all the way down. When she comes to a stop beside Calla, she’s slightly breathless. She was definitely rushing around before Calla’s presence caught her attention. “I would promise to not let that happen, but I think you and I both know I don’t hold much sway.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Venus grimaces. “Are you coming to the second meeting?”

Second meeting?

Calla quirks a brow, turning away from the window and facing the councilmember. “I didn’t know I was invited. What did I miss at the first meeting?”

“Otta Avia claims to know the location of the crown. First informal meeting was a vote on sending a delegation.” The council must have been doing that while Calla and Anton were off arguing. “Second in an hour is to confirm who is attending. Miss Avia has personally requested your presence in the delegation.”

Calla resists the urge to punch through the window and dive out. Maybe she’ll survive the splat in the alleyway below. Maybe she’ll fuse to the cement and won’t have to look at Otta and her stupid tiny face ever again.

“May I ask why?”

“Uncertain. We all assumed you wanted to go.” Venus hesitates. “To speak frankly, I don’t think this is a good idea. San-Er is rioting, and we’re the capital, packed with palace guards. By the time this news reaches Rincun, protest from the rural civilians won’t be all the yamen has to worry about.”

“You’re afraid of mass entry into your province,” Calla states. She has a headache emerging behind her ears.

Venus lowers her voice. “My soldiers can’t handle that. They can barely handle the province as is. Anyone entering the borderlands must pass through Rincun, and there will be plenty of people entering to make a search for the crown. It will be havoc.”

Calla resists a sigh. When it is the divine crown up for grabs, who can say how its seekers will go about the job? They might well kill everyone in their way for the infinitesimal chance of success, as though San-Er’s annual games have expanded outside its wall and into the provinces.

“Look, Venus. Can I call you Venus?” If there is a delegation, it will likely set off at dawn. There is no time left for anything other than hurried plans. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Take your own delegation to Rincun immediately. Put out a proclamation to stay inside unless absolutely necessary. Dig into the Hailira pocketbooks and subsidize the food and rice your villages need. It won’t stop what’s unfolding, but it will prevent your soldiers from getting overwhelmed. It’ll entice the people who live in Rincun to sit at home instead of venturing into the borderlands for the crown in a desperate bid to stay afloat.”

Maybe Venus didn’t expect Calla to offer an actual alternative. It takes her a beat to register Calla’s words. Another long beat before she nods slowly, then more vigorously.

“All right,” she says. “How—how long do I do that for?”

Calla shakes her head. She’s got to go. She has business of her own to tend to.

“Don’t make me draw up all your plans.”

“But Highness”—as Calla tries to circle past her, Venus holds her arm out with more to say—“the entirety of Talin should enact this, if it is something councilmembers can manage. You should speak at the meeting.”

There is such hope in Venus Hailira’s voice. Calla tries to imagine how such an initiative would look. The farms settling into stillness. The village wells unattended.

“Be realistic, Venus. What will San-Er eat if Eigi is pushed into containment? You can do this because you are Rincun, and that is all. Get your delegation and go. You’re out of time.”

Before Venus can object, Calla pushes past her arm and hurries down the hallway again, resuming her quick pace. She makes only one detour: her sword, retrieved from the vault. She’s lucky she hasn’t done anything to draw the palace’s suspicion quite yet, because the guards let her in and out without a problem. At some point, she’s going to need to return the valuables she stole too, because it certainly doesn’t look like she’s leaving now.

She isn’t leaving, but she is going to the borderlands with the palace delegation.

The very thought drives a nail through her skull. Calla may as well be banging her head repeatedly against the wall. There’s no reason to do this, the sensible part of her says, the part that kept her tucked away for five years preparing a successful assassination, single-minded in her mission. Then blind annoyance overpowers everything else, and her ears are ringing with white noise, clearing for nothing except: Anton, Anton, Anton. You know what, fuck you. I’ll show you. You’ll see.

She glances over her shoulder. The corridors have cleared. Her sword hangs off her hip with a weight she’s grown unaccustomed to. Significant time has passed since the games. Bearing the weapon again takes her back to her early days, trying to adjust to the way it brushes against the leather of her trousers.

Calla turns the handle to her rooms and slinks in, letting the door thud after her. Despite the measured manner of her movements, its echo is loud, foreboding, the toll of a funeral bell.

Leida looks up from the other end of the bedroom, still tied to the pipe.

“You’ll be glad to hear that the cities are a mess, I’m sure,” Calla says casually. “Riots all around the palace. Our divine crown is a fake and has no ability to determine the mandate of the heavens. Otta Avia declared that the true one is lost somewhere in the borderlands.”

Leida reacts to her words woodenly. She doesn’t appear surprised, and Calla thinks, Of course . If she was watching Otta long enough to learn about her control over qi, she must have also learned about the divine crown. She might even have known about it earlier, gleaning any information she could from August to eventually turn on him.

“I’m surprised it’s taken this long for the kingdom to find out.”

“Yes, well”—Calla breathes out, rubbing the corners of her eyes vigorously until her blurred vision clears—“as much as San-Er has left behind its belief in the old gods, it sure still believes in the cosmic determination of the heavens. Either that, or they’ve been waiting for a reason to riot after years of Kasa.”

Leida doesn’t respond. She’s trained her gaze on a spot over Calla’s shoulder, and she keeps it there.

“I passed a few guards on my way out of the vault,” Calla continues. She knows what will trigger a response. “The palace has given the instruction to execute anyone found jumping in the cities at this time.”

Leida meets her eyes in a snap. Only then does a line of shock finally crumple her brow.

“That’s excessive.”

Calla shrugs. “The palace has to make an example out of them somehow. They’re already afraid of the Crescents’ abilities, given recent circumstances. You caused this.”

“I caused nothing.” Offense crawls into Leida’s voice. She prickles, evidently, at the accusation. “I only gave back knowledge that was rightfully theirs.”

The more Calla tries to use logic on what is unfolding before them, the more her head hurts. She wouldn’t put it past Kasa and his forefathers to lie to the kingdom. If an enemy came knocking on San-Er’s door and obliterated the wall, King Kasa would have looked directly into a broadcast camera and insisted the brick formation remained standing. Still, to succeed in erasing decades of collective memory entirely is not only absurd, but wholly different from telling a lie that the people pretend to believe. For as long as Calla has been alive, it has been a given rule within Talin that jumping causes a flash of visible light and requires close proximity. If this hasn’t always been the case, how long ago was the truth concealed?

“Leida,” Calla says. “I already played in the games. I don’t have time for more.”

“I don’t know what part of this seems like a game to you.” Leida jostles about, exaggerating her confinement in the cord. “Either let me go or return me to the cells. It’s not my fault that the king you put on the throne is showing his true colors.”

She sounds like Anton. All Calla keeps hearing are accusations, yet no one seems to have a solution. What do they want ? To burn the kingdom to ash and start over wearing threadbare clothes on flat plains? Calla has done her time going hungry in Rincun. She isn’t going to volunteer to return to that way of life.

“What if he kills some Crescents and the provinces never starve again?” She doesn’t know why she bothers trying to save face for August. “Can’t exactly improve the kingdom if he’s never given the peace to build.”

Leida stays silent awhile. It’s peculiar: there is no noise from the protests in here. The walls of her quarters have obstructed it entirely.

“You know,” Leida says slowly, almost lethargically, “a fish in poisoned water won’t be thankful to await a feeding every hour. It will want a new tank where it can swim uninhibited to find its own food.”

“I don’t really care for riddles.”

“It’s not a riddle. It’s as plain as daylight.”

Calla wanders over to the thick curtain. Brushes at the edge to peer outside, seeing little except shadows.

“What fine daylight we have today,” she murmurs.

It is not a phrase that would be spoken in San-Er, with its claustrophobic alleys and looming, low buildings. That’s why they chose it during the games, so Anton could identify himself no matter which body he was wearing.

“Look,” Calla says firmly, tugging the curtain back before Leida can note her distraction. “Otta has summoned me for their delegation. You know what she is capable of. Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”

Leida narrows her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Calla has already as much as admitted to Leida that she’s an invader. “I don’t need to keep you here. I don’t actually give a shit if you want to bring down this palace.”

At first, Leida stays quiet. Her eyes pointedly go to the bag that Calla abandoned near the door. Maybe Leida will call her bluff. When all’s said and done, Calla is here prying for answers from an enemy of the throne instead of taking her stolen assets and leaving. An errant advisor is still an advisor: no matter her methods, she continues tending to the threats pressing on the monarchy.

She doesn’t want to give a shit. Truly—she wishes she cared less. But the problem with destroying the palace is that Calla can’t imagine what comes in the aftermath. Someone sneakier than Kasa, perhaps. Something that comes slithering out from Otta Avia’s sleeve. Peace is not guaranteed. And if Calla lets that happen by turning the other way, maybe it’ll come find her later anyhow in whichever province corner she hunkers down at.

It’s why August was supposed to take over. It’s why August was supposed to be their fair king, bringing in a new, just age.

“I want that backpack,” Leida finally says.

Of course she does.

“Fine.” Calla leans against the wall. “I’m listening.”

Leida brings one ear to her shoulder, then does the same on the other side, stretching her neck. A few exaggerated motions later, she fidgets in her bindings, as though some godly intervention might come down from the heavens and save her from this bargain she’s made if she holds out a little longer from speaking. Nothing comes.

“Leida, don’t waste my time.”

“I’m thinking about what you need to know,” she retorts. Leida huffs, and, with each word practically dragging through her teeth, finally opens with, “Before the war, Talin’s families used to have patron gods. You know this part?”

Calla puts her hands into her jacket pockets. “I could assume.”

“They prayed to their patron god for protection and health. That part makes it into the history books sometimes. The part left out is that some of them went further than prayer. Some of them made sacrifices in exchange for heightened levels of qi. The only problem was, the gods were fickle. Merely sacrificing each time they wanted to be heard was unreliable. Sometimes killing a cow afforded new strength. Sometimes killing ten neighbors achieved nothing.”

Calla, again, returns to Anton’s dead body in her mind’s eye. Her dagger, piercing his back and sinking to the hilt. All that blood spilling and spilling, dampening the arena ground.

“The old gods could choose when they wanted to listen if a mortal’s sacrifice called for their attention among the pantheon,” Leida goes on, “but each family possessed a sigil that called directly to their patron god. Patron gods were forced to listen if a sigil was marked after a sacrifice. It was the one foolproof method to unlock access to a god’s ear.”

“I need to stop you right there.” Calla closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep inhale. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“You asked to understand what Otta is doing.”

Calla’s eyes snap open. “The gods aren’t real . Do you know how many people I have killed? How much qi I’ve released back into the ether, how much blood has run by my hand? Don’t you think I would have noticed by now if the gods tuned in each time?”

“Highness, if you can’t even fulfill the first component of believing in them, how would you ever make a sacrifice to them?”

With the way she speaks, Leida doesn’t give the impression of lying. That doesn’t have to mean it’s true, though. Perhaps Leida really does believe this—perhaps the people of San-Er are more religious than Calla thought.

It must be explainable. Maybe it is not a god that allows access to new qi, but the mortal body, unlocking something when a sigil is drawn on. Before the kingdom spoke about jumping as a matter of genetics, the provinces threw around the word magic too. With further understanding, whether for jumping or for manipulating qi, there’s always an explanation beyond gods and divination.

“The Crescent Societies,” Calla says. She brings one hand out from her pocket and mimics two horizontal lines in the air. “They had this on their chests.”

“One of the most basic sigils. Many families used to share it to call on one patron god. Probably the god of the sky.”

Calla, slowly, looms closer.

“So which one have you been using?”

Subtly, she watches Leida’s left arm twitch. The cord is still holding firm. If Leida were to make a sudden effort to free herself, it would make more sense for her to yank the right arm, since it is closer to the outside. It would have a far better chance at unraveling the binding.

“You asked to understand how Otta is capable of manipulating qi,” Leida says. “I’ve told you.”

“I’m sure you took the family sigil Otta was using. You must have been curious if you could use it too.”

“No. I’ve never used it.”

A lie, given the ease at which she jumps between bodies.

“There are sigils noted in the royal books,” Leida goes on. “You can check for yourself. Before the war, families would use them as crests to represent their household when reporting to their yamen.”

“But you said yourself”—Calla takes another step closer—“families also shared sigils that called to popular gods. That indicates common ones and rare ones. I want Otta’s.”

“Check the books,” Leida says firmly. “I’ve told you what I know. The vault is going to be of more help to you than I am. She must have gotten it there. Keep your word and let me go.”

“Fine, fine.” Calla’s eyes flit to the bag she left by the door. How tragic it is, to have escape waiting so closely, within reach. “If you leave now in the night, they might have unguarded window exits. Let me cut you loose.”

Calla draws her sword. The silver flashes in the low light, the blade edge glinting.

With a muffled huff, Leida strains her wrists behind her, giving Calla maneuvering room. Calla draws closer, then crouches. Puts the point of her sword against the cord, sawing, sawing, sawing—

“I’m sorry, Leida.”

“What—”

Calla shoves the sword through. It cuts between the side of Leida’s ribs, into the heart, emerges from the other side. Before Leida can make a sound any stronger than a gasp, Calla pulls the sword out.

The long blade catches. Makes a wet, squelching noise. A mere few weeks of disuse is already affecting its function. Leida cries out; the initial trickle of blood transforms to an outright gush. Her hands remain bound. She cannot stanch the wound.

“This is what it comes to, then,” Leida rasps.

“I’ll use it well.” Calla stares at the splatter of blood that has landed on the inside of her wrist. There is a twist in her throat, appalling and enormous, but she doesn’t swallow it down. “I promise. I’ll make this sacrifice worthwhile.”

The long wheeze that Leida emits is a familiar one. “You claim to be an intruder, yet you are one of them nonetheless. You make your promises in vain.”

Leida Miliu’s eyes glaze over, turn into still-life crystals that might be harvested for portraits of death. Calla knows she will say nothing more afterward. Whichever guard she invaded has died in the process too. There will be no justice for this dual life taken.

Calla was willing to sacrifice Anton to get Kasa off the throne. She’s willing to sacrifice whoever gets in her way if they won’t yield to her now, including every other noble in this palace trying to wreak havoc on this kingdom. Princess. King-Killer .

It’s about time she stops lying to herself.

She sets the sword down. Leida’s blood has sunk into the carpet. The smell is pungent. The room sits quiet.

Calla takes Leida’s left arm and pushes up her long sleeve.

“Goodness,” she whispers beneath her breath.

In the Hollow Temple, the Crescent Society members marked themselves with blood. On Leida’s arm, there’s a sigil drawn not in blood, but glowing faintly in the appearance of liquid light, right underneath her skin. A left dot, a long and slanting curve with a dot above, then another dot to the right. It looks like it should be a word in Talinese. Calla doesn’t recognize it. She does stare at it, committing it to memory until the body stops flowing with blood, until—before her very eyes—the sigil starts to turn faint, then disappears entirely.

“What the fuck?” she mutters. She gets to her feet, gathering her sword and sheathing it. In the bathroom, she washes the blood off her hands, scrubbing under the running tap until the crevices on her palms are clean. A heavy sensation clings to her when she leaves her rooms and enters the hallway, but she has a feeling that’s not entirely her imagination. She keeps one of her fists clenched tightly.

None of the guards are particularly concerned by her presence in the hallways. Calla walks between the wings, to the palace cells, and then to the farthest door—the cells with maximum security. Though the Weisannas block her passage at first, she asks for them to find Galipei to confirm her permissions, and before Galipei has scarcely responded to the page they send, she slips between them and descends the stairs.

One yellow light glows from the walls. No windows. The ceiling hovers low enough that Calla’s head brushes the top, forcing her to stay hunched. At the base, she finds a row of empty cells running down the left side.

They didn’t bother locking Leida’s body away securely. It is only a vessel, so it has been sat outside the cell they were keeping her in, preparing for the moment they found her and could force a return. Calla kneels at the vessel’s side and pushes up its sleeve too. A chill skates up her arm.

The same sigil, marked with blood.

Calla unclenches her fist. Her palm is damp with water, and she presses it to the sigil, scrubbing it away.

“Calla!”

Galipei’s voice bursts down the stairs a second before he does. Calla rises to greet him.

“What are you doing?” he demands. His eyes flicker between her and Leida’s body.

“You’re welcome,” Calla says. She brushes past him. “The palace can come out of lockdown.”