Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

A long time ago, Anton Makusa used to make this exact journey with his family. San-Er was stifling, as was the palace, and if the occasion allowed it, his parents took them out to Kelitu for fresh air every few months. They would borrow a carriage from the palace, pile into the seats with his sister, Buira, giggling at being crammed against him. The carriage driver would ask if they were ready, clambering onto his seat with the horse reins, and his mother would shush them quickly before closing the door, signaling that they were all set to go. Only councilmembers could leave the capital whenever they pleased—they needed to govern their provinces, which did require being in the provinces on occasion—but that still required approval in advance, and all who went outside the wall were carefully logged. Resources for travel were scarce. After they reached Kelitu, the carriage driver would quickly return to San-Er in case he was needed by another councilmember, and he wouldn’t return again until the date arrived when the Makusas planned to come back to the cities.

That was why it took them so long to rescue Anton after the attack. One full day, after he had cried himself out and resorted to sitting torpid in the carnage. He could only wait until the driver returned. Until the driver made a distress call and the call brought the palace guard in.

He cranes his neck up against the carriage window now. The carriage is shockingly well maintained—its gears oiled, seat linings soft. He doesn’t remember the ride being this luxurious, but maybe someone on the council argued for an upgrade in the past few years, or maybe they only bring the best out for the king’s use. Some miles back, the driver almost took them off-road before she got control of the horses again, and Anton barely felt it because the wheels moved through Eigi’s minor flooding like it was nothing. The climate in Eigi is muggy, each step on the ground slapping wetly. One major road runs through Eigi before splitting in two for Pashe and for Leysa: the Apian Routes, shaped like a two-pronged instrument until the Jinzi River cuts off both ends. They’ll be traveling through Leysa to get to the borderlands.

Back then, they went through Pashe to get to Kelitu, so he supposes the similarity to his family’s route ends there. Maybe no one would think much of it if he asks to travel through Pashe on this journey too, just so he can see it again.

A knock comes on the window, jolting Anton for a moment. He peers through the foggy glass, and Calla takes shape, riding alongside the carriage on a horse.

His fists tighten in his lap.

“We’re slowing,” Calla says, muffled through the glass. “Rehanou is complaining.”

Councilmember Rehanou shouldn’t be on this delegation to begin with. But it was better to allow the councilmembers who insisted on coming than argue and delay the journey. There are four carriages rumbling after the one Anton occupies—five is the maximum number kept in surplus by the palace, and thank the heavens, because it limited the councilmembers who could claim that the delegation absolutely needed their assistance when passing through each of their provinces. There could be danger; there are most certainly other forces out here trying to fetch the crown too. It’ll require defensive standby in each province. Smooth cooperation from the barracks and soldiers waiting to be summoned.

In truth, the councilmembers’ presence implies a lack of faith that the soldiers out here will listen to instructions from their king. The chain of command is supposed to run from throne to council to general to soldier. Yet Talin is made up of mortals, and mortal loyalty is more oft sworn to the people they can see. In the provinces, the king might as well be as intangible as the old gods for how distant he is.

There’s a reason Talin has so many provinces. No councilmember’s power can grow too great this way. Less chance of leading a successful revolt against the throne.

“Stopping for the night?” Anton asks.

Through the glass, Calla nods. “Floods are bad up ahead,” she says shortly. Then she trots forward on her horse, her nose in the air.

“Does she always do that?”

Otta’s voice is a shock beside him. He isn’t quick enough to disguise his reaction, and Otta pulls a face.

“Sorry,” Anton says. Two Weisannas sit opposite them in the carriage. Though the elite guards may look like they’re dozing off for their own rest, they’re trained to be listening to every word. No room for speaking out of turn. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, I don’t mean anything by it.” Otta leans back with a sigh, lolling her head into the curtain on the other side. “It just seems tiring that you are running around keeping tabs on your leading royal advisor more so than said royal advisor is going about her job advising. She wasn’t even going to come on this delegation until I requested her presence. Fancy that!”

Anton’s eyes slide again to the Weisannas, and he bites his tongue. He hasn’t had a moment alone with Otta since she played her hand at the banquet. He hasn’t had the chance to ask plainly about what she’s doing, why she’s insisted on Calla Tuoleimi’s obligation to be present for this retrieval mission. Surely she would prefer Calla stay out of it. Especially given the snide remarks she’s been throwing whenever the opportunity arises.

But if Anton had to guess, he would say this: Otta doesn’t go about anything half-heartedly. She’s woken to him on the throne. She won’t wait for a natural conclusion where Anton either decides to keep the role or jumps back into his birth body purely to beat the shit out of a conscious August. Anton may have the patience and wherewithal to wait for clarity in his circumstances before playing his hand. Otta will find power in her grasp and clutch tight immediately.

Remember, I’m doing this for you.

Why? Anton thinks, staring at Otta. She stares back, and maybe she can read his question in that gaze alone. What comes after finding the crown?

The carriage rolls over a cluster of hard rocks. A long creak sounds from the floor. The walls shift, then settle.

“I have to admit,” Anton says aloud, “it would have been nice if you had told me about this in private first.”

It’s a risk to start this conversation in front of the Weisannas, but with this delegation now, Otta has more to lose by exposing him than by playing along.

“And why is that?” Otta returns easily. “I know you. You would have chosen the safe maneuver. You would have quietly sent a small force to the borderlands to fetch it and spent all your energy on making sure the news never got out.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Really, August, perhaps I should be your advisor instead.” The carriage is starting to slow. Otta shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other and letting the silk fabric of her green skirts flutter. “It is the divine crown . We must fetch it personally. Is there anyone in the palace that you trust enough to send for a task like this?”

Anton huffs. He gestures to the two Weisannas before them. “My guards are very trustworthy.”

“Leida Miliu was a traitor.”

The Weisannas can’t help but frown. They resent the insinuation here, but it isn’t in their place to speak. Otta smiles sweetly at them.

“Sooner or later,” she goes on, “every secret comes to light. You would have preferred to risk the chance that the crown went missing along the way as long as the kingdom didn’t find out. It doesn’t work like that. The reward of this crown is far too great. You must act accordingly.”

The carriage stops. Outside, one of the guards dismounts from her horse with an audible splash of her boots in the wet grass. They will check the perimeter before calling the all clear that lets the nobility disembark.

“You weren’t worried that my council would turn against me?” Anton keeps his words tame for the listening guards, but Otta surely senses the warning underlying them. “It’s not unimaginable that if they were feeling less generous, they could have voted to unseat me until the crown was brought back.”

“Your Majesty,” Otta says, sniffing. “You are still mandated to rule by the line of succession. They cannot simply decide you are not their king anymore.”

“Ah, but they can decide to wait for a proper coronation. Treat me as they might handle an underaged heir apparent: appoint a regent from the council until the crown actually says I have divine right to rule.”

Otta rolls her eyes. With the way that the two guards have perked up—a subtle shoulder tilted forward, an imperceptive shift of the knees—they would be nodding along if it were appropriate.

“All to say,” Anton finishes, “we got lucky this time. You have my respect, Otta. But if you keep trying to decide what’s best, I will have to rein you in. There’s a reason you are only my sister, not my advisor.”

Seven years have passed is the silent warning whispered between the words, under and over. You must know we are not the same people anymore.

“Your—”

The carriage door opens. “All clear. You’re welcome to exit, Majesty.”

Otta clamps her mouth shut. She flounces out first, not hiding her annoyance. When Anton follows after her, poking his head through the door, his gaze lands on a small cluster of midlevel buildings to their left. He pinpoints their current location immediately. They’ve barely passed the middle of Eigi. This used to be Eigi’s capital, before King Kasa burned it down and built a security base instead. The yamen has since moved farther north, the villagers evacuated. When the reels reported the event and panned to those blackened buildings, the newscasters spent mere minutes on it before moving on to the total casualties of the games that day.

Slowly, Anton steps onto the grass. His shoe squelches into the earth. He’s waved forward with Otta, the guards herding the delegation toward a large gray building in the distance, and Anton barely keeps his expression even.

He hasn’t seen the provinces in so long. He doesn’t remember the world outside the wall, not really. The memories exist as faint impressions in his mind, the same way he only retains flashes of what the palace felt like when his parents were still around. He remembers Kelitu through the longing in his chest when he breathes open air. He remembers Kelitu by its frequent echo of sound, miles and miles of wetlands waving in every direction. Though he can’t envision what their vacation home looked like anymore, he hears Buira whooping while she runs alongside the tall fronds sprouting in a perimeter around their property. Kelitu is a seaside province. It smells of salt, screams with the caw of its cliff-climbing birds. Nothing like the pigeons of San-Er that he was used to, and when he hears Eigi’s birds overhead and lifts his head to look, the fleeting images come rushing back, superimposed over the present like an exposed film reel.

“Cousin.”

There’s a tug on his elbow, then the slithering sensation of cold fabric when Calla loops her arm through his. To his left, Otta casts a glance over, frowning. Galipei keeps distance to their right, hovering in and out of his periphery.

“What is it, Calla?”

Calla doesn’t answer immediately. When he looks to her, she’s staring back at Otta, the displeasure in her eyes as bright as burning torchlight. He wouldn’t put it past her to create conflict at the first opportunity. Calla brought along merely one attendant for staff. She showed up at the wall wanting to bring her cat too, before one of the Weisannas put down their foot and said it was a security hazard, to which Calla only rolled her eyes and pointedly asked a palace attendant to “take Mao Mao back and feed him some steak for the stress you’re causing him.”

“The flooding,” Calla finally says. Her tone is curt. “A natural buildup wouldn’t just clog a small part of the Apian Routes in the middle of Eigi. When we travel through the province, we’re moving on a decline. The north is lower than the south.”

Anton’s brow furrows. Heavens. When did Calla Tuoleimi have time to be studying the provinces like this while she was training to kill a king? He certainly didn’t pay enough attention during the academy to know this about Eigi.

“Floods don’t always follow natural inclines,” he says. “Maybe some farmers messed up the drainage. Or there’s too much dirt blocking the roadside. Some rural dwellers bury their dead by the Apian Routes thinking it gets them closer to their gods.”

“Sure.” Calla turns over her shoulder. Her eyes narrow at Councilmember Mugo, who walks nearby with his cellular phone pressed to his ear. He’s contacting his generals, gathering his soldiers stationed in the province. Eigi is his territory to govern, so he clamored to aid the delegation with security while they travel. “Or someone is trying to get us off route the moment we’re out of the cities.”

“Pray tell, why would they do that?” Anton asks. Despite himself, he sees Kelitu in his mind again. The attackers who barged in with knives. Their swift fury, cutting without hesitation until his parents were bleeding out on the hardwood floor. For so long, he had imagined this an inevitability, some tragedy that accompanied his family’s stature, yet all this time—

Calla staggers in her step. At first, Anton thinks she must be responding to what he said, but it would be bizarre to show such dramatics to a mildly sarcastic question. The moment he grabs her arm, catching her before she can slip from the crook of his elbow, Calla crumples fully.

He feels a thrum from her hand.

Her eyes aren’t merely bright from indignation. They’re… bright . Emitting light.

“Your Highness,” her attendant says sharply, breaking from the guard line and hurrying toward her.

“She’s fine,” Anton says quickly. He sniffs. It can’t be a coincidence that the smell of burning rubber is pervading the air around them now too. “Let’s get inside. It’s probably the elements.”

Otta steps in. “May I help—”

Anton tugs Calla away, avoiding Otta’s reach. She can’t see her like this. It’ll open a fucking giant can of worms. “No need. I’ll handle this.”

Before Otta can argue, he hastens their pace, drawing ahead of the Weisannas and practically dragging Calla forward. She walks as though she’s downed a gallon of wine. It would almost be impressive if she’d actually managed to smuggle that out, but unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“Princess,” Anton mutters under his breath. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Councilmember Mugo hangs up his cellular phone to greet the soldiers stationed outside the gray building. Anton is already forging through the double doors, and Eigi’s base takes shape like a backward mirage. What seemed like a cluster of buildings from farther away is nothing more than an illusion when looking up close; he mistook these thin towers for full-bodied interiors. The base unfurls in a gaunt, serpentine manner, letting its operations thread around and about the compact spaces as an endless maze, just like San-Er.

“Your Majesty,” a soldier at the door says. “Lodgings are in the second wing—”

“I need a moment to speak with my advisor.” Anton pulls ahead, taking Calla with him. In the foyer, the cold gray outer appearance transforms. His muddy shoes touch down on plush red; the wallpaper glistens a midnight blue. It is still daytime, but the foyer is dark, illuminated by candles glued to the windowsill and lanterns at the center mantel. In their haste, Calla stumbles again, barely keeping her feet straight before she recovers. It must be disconcerting to show weakness before others, because Calla’s tone is wholly enraged when she hisses, “Your Majesty, you are yanking me around like a machine lever.”

“Well, Highness, you ought to keep up if nothing is wrong.”

Her hand thrums again. Stronger, this time. Anton pushes through a hallway, where he finds a low ceiling and a string of lights taped to the wall. Why would they have such varying sources of lighting, and what is that yellow—

Anton’s gaze flickers to his side. A glow emanates from Calla. The cutting, hard citrine of her eyes, faintly changing the hue of the hallway.

“Great heavens, Princess—”

Anton hauls her into the first room he finds. Someone’s office, empty of life. The blinds are drawn tight, again creating the illusion of night with only a small electric bulb from the desk lamp. Though he makes the frantic effort to close the door behind him, it starts sliding on its own, clicking with a magnetic mechanism. Calla staggers away the moment he loosens his grip, preferring the table over his help.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“What the fuck did I do?” Calla echoes. “Why don’t you ask your little lover whether she’s poisoned me?”

Anton frowns. Whatever this affliction is, it’s messing with her balance. Both her feet are planted firmly on the floor, yet her arm flails out, as though she needs the support to stop from falling over.

“Otta is capable of many feats,” he says, “but she wouldn’t resort to poison.”

“Oh, sure .”

With a sudden, barely suppressed noise, Calla yanks her arm back, then presses it hard against her sternum. The moment Anton inches forward to help, he reminds himself to get it together. His eyes pivot to the wall, and he unhooks a bronze plaque instead.

“Take a look at yourself.”

He puts the bronze plaque in front of her. Calla flinches as soon as she glances at the surface. Rather than addressing why there is a yellow tinge to the room, she shoves the plaque away, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Don’t.”

“This is not a friendly request,” Anton snaps. “This is a command: tell me what you did.”

Calla’s grip tightens. She isn’t only clasping her chest—she’s splayed her fingers and formed claws with her nails, as though the skin underneath is bothering her and she wants to tear through it to get at what’s underneath. The burning smell thickens. A vibration has started within the room, and when Anton tilts his head, his ear doesn’t pick it up as a sound so much as a feeling: movement that shakes the walls, the carpet, the ceiling slats until it’s itching at the inside of his mouth. It’s burrowing into bone. He would start plucking his teeth out one by one to make it stop.

Enough. Anton lunges forward. Before Calla can combat his approach, he hooks a foot around her ankle and takes her balance out. She yelps; he shoves her onto the desk.

“Hey!”

“I’m not attacking , god—”

When he squeezes her neck, he’s exceedingly aware of each point of contact between them, each brush between his fingertips and her burning skin, between his palm and her throat. The feeling sears his nerve endings as though he’s actually put his hand upon an open flame. The call to press closer into her is trancelike, near hypnotic. Calla jerks up in an attempt to get free, to push his hand off. She’s unbalanced, and all she achieves is her nose nudging the side of his face. A whole-body shudder runs down his spine.

Anton, going exactly for what she’s trying to protect, yanks at her shirt collar, revealing a glimpse of blood smeared on her skin. She bucks, forcing him away, but he’s found what he was looking for.

“What have you done?” Anton demands. “Why are you messing around with Crescent Society experiments?”

“Not Crescent Society experiments,” Calla manages, heaving. “Just qi.”

“Stop it, then.”

“I’m not trying to do this.”

He grabs her face roughly with his other hand, keeping her still, flat on her back. “ Calla .”

Calla makes a noise, her chest rising and falling. It isn’t the whine of helplessness. It is a siren lure of hunger, and he wants nothing more than to bite down. Put his mouth on the vulnerable triangle of soft skin between her collarbones. There are so many ways to kill her right now, to turn the trap on her. A dozen objects on the table that he could use as a weapon: start with the ink pen and skewer it through her ribs, plunge through muscle and bone and split every important organ open until she’s bleeding and repenting before him.

Her eyes are frantic, swiveling around.

Calla feels each groove of the hand on her jaw. Anton is wearing rings. Cold jade. Faintly, she takes inventory of what else is real around her body: the blue wallpaper, the stale air, the shriek of some alarm whining through the building. Then Anton says her name again, and she hears something else. He shakes her shoulders with a disgruntled “ Calla, come on ,” and her ears spasm; her eyes go dark.

Sinoa, come on.

Calla blinks hard. “What did you say?”

“I said, you’re trapping it in,” Anton replies, and she realizes he wasn’t the one to speak. At least not the last part she just heard. “The qi.”

“Qi is supposed to be on the inside.”

“Not if you’re reacting like this! Let it out.”

There’s a second voice whispering in the room. Whispering in constant rhythm alongside Anton’s words so that she can’t pick apart what they’re saying, save that they are getting closer and closer to her ear. She cranes her neck, searches through her blurring vision, and when Anton tightens his grip on her forcefully, she isn’t in control of herself as her hand lifts to shove him away.

A pulse beats fiercely from her wrist. It collides with Anton’s chest as if she has taken a wooden mallet to him, and the momentum pushes him hard enough that he skids across the carpet until his back collides with the far wall.

Calla heaves for breath. Anton swears, then stumbles a step, wincing and reaching for his shoulder. He doesn’t look too badly injured.

The room settles. Calla rubs her eyes, and there’s no more burning sensation. No glow. It has been building for the entire journey out—she simply couldn’t have imagined that this would have been the result.

For the first time in fifteen years, she almost felt like she was about to jump.

“You did something,” Anton states. He doesn’t bother posing it as a question. “To cause this.”

Calla’s hand drifts down to her collar, her finger trailing the lining. In his bid to investigate—she must have been touching the sigil and drawn his attention, she realizes absently—Anton loosened the fabric. A clock ticks in the corner. The remains of heavy distress coat her tongue, but in the sharp taste there’s vindication too, and she wants to lean over, wants to ask Anton to give it a taste so he realizes what she’s achieved. He was close enough for it. He might have, if only she’d asked.

“Maybe.”

“Calla, this isn’t a joke.”

“I’m not joking.” She flexes her hand. She feels a new thrum skate down her arm, but it isn’t intractable. It feels as though she’s suddenly able to move a muscle she never knew she had. “Maybe I did do something. Maybe the gods willed it.”

A muscle twitches at the side of Anton’s face. “If you’re trying to feign religiosity now—”

“I’m not.” Calla pushes off the desk. “Go ask Otta if you want answers. It all started with her, anyway.” She brushes by him and hits a latch on the wall that opens the office door. Noise floats in from the hallway.

Anton scoffs. “ What is your problem with Otta?”

There’s no need to reply. He should know. In fact, he should have questioned Otta the very moment she woke, because their current predicament begins with Otta Avia, and Calla is going to get to the bottom of it.

If not for the kingdom’s sake, then for his. So he can see what Calla sees.

“As I was saying outside…” She walks off, letting her voice float back. “Summon the councilmembers to a meeting. I have concerns about our journey.”