Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

In Actia, their ankle bindings are loosened. In Janton, after crossing the Jinzi River and returning to the south of the kingdom, the guards must feel content enough that there won’t be any funny business for as long as their birth bodies are being held hostage, because they get their wrist bindings loosened too, the rope tight around only one wrist and looped to the seats of the carriage. It’s not like Anton will be running anywhere. He can’t jump Weisannas, and if he escapes into the provinces in this body, he’s guaranteeing a slow death either by eventual starvation or by intense boredom.

The journey passes in a blindfolded blur. There are no more attacks—nary the slightest threat of danger from the kingdom outside, and Anton knows he’s not the only one who finds that strange. He keeps feeling someone stomp on his toes every time the guards say something to mark their location. Calla, no doubt. Or maybe it’s Galipei trying to throw him off, since he’s riding in the same carriage to ensure there aren’t any plans being exchanged. He’s with them at every moment, even to use the bathroom.

Anton chatters meaninglessly every time a thought occurs to him, but Calla remains dead silent. No one in the carriage pays him any mind. He doesn’t know what Calla is thinking. Whether she has something up her sleeve, because Anton sure as fuck has nothing.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” August declared when they were being loaded into the carriages in Rincun. “We’re going to return to San-Er. You’re going to take full responsibility for your misdeeds, and then you will await decision by the council. Don’t even think about trying anything, because I’ll burn both your birth bodies at the slightest provocation.”

He didn’t leave room for argument. August turned on his heel coldly, asking for the guards to hurry it up. The proclamation was comically performative anyway, meant for the benefit of the guards that surrounded them. What did it matter what the council’s decision was? August was trying to get rid of the councilmembers, anyhow. Eventually, what was left of the council would descend into such shambles that King August could smoothly take over, becoming the one voice that the generals and soldiers answered to.

With every province they cross, Anton gets more and more restless. He likes to have a way out. In exile, survival meant constantly flitting off one burned bridge to another made of kindling. Even if it was a temporary path out, it was better than nothing.

Right now, he really has nothing. He doesn’t have a shred of power. He has lost the body to play king. He has lost control over the masses, lost the right to click his fingers and be brought anything under the skies. Meanwhile, it takes one snap of August’s temper, and Anton’s head rolls.

It doesn’t seem fair. August isn’t even afraid of the dangers of keeping Anton alive; he makes no reference to wanting to kill him in punishment. August would, in fact, prefer to keep Anton alive to report to San-Er, to parade him around like some scampering rat caught eating in the back kitchen because he can reclaim the control that Anton took from him. Even if August has the inkling that Anton knows who was responsible for the attack in Kelitu, he doesn’t care . He is August Shenzhi, with a kingdom operating under his thumb, and Anton is barely a Makusa anymore when there is no one else of his bloodline to make Makusa feel like anything more than a name.

A sudden, hard stomp comes on his toes, and Anton jolts. They are on day five of a journey that doesn’t break for sleep. The drivers simply alternate with guards who take the reins when they grow too tired to go on. By nightfall, they will have reached San-Er.

Anton shifts his foot, tapping Calla back to ask what the matter is. He tries to imagine what life might look like if the council decides to pardon them and condemn him back to exile. With criminal status, Anton might pick up a small cult following amid the Crescent Societies, in the same way that many of them like to rewatch Calla’s massacre footage every year as a holiday treat. Otherwise, the rest of his days will pass in relative insignificance.

It isn’t as though the past seven years have had much significance either. Only an endless cycle of cobbling together money and making payments month after month to sustain a hospital bed. Otta needed him, though, and that’s more than he can say at present. Without her, he’s untethered.

Heavens knows that he’ll never be tethered to her again. From what he overheard, August left guards behind to sweep the borderlands, but there hasn’t been news on whether she’s been found yet. Otta has disappeared.

Calla nudges his ankle, and Anton heightens his focus. Someone has answered a phone in the carriage. Though the words on the other end are inaudible, offering only a buzzy, low murmur outside the receiver, the carriage turns tense. Conversation on the opposite seats has died down. The other guards are waiting for the result of the call.

A button clicks.

It is the final plunge of an executioner’s injection. The lock being turned in an eternal prison cell. Anton doesn’t understand why Calla hasn’t made a grab for Talin’s throne. Princess Calla Tuoleimi, who—as far as Talin is aware—has as much claim to that crown as August does. Perhaps more. This Calla who sits bound with him claims to believe in what is good, but she didn’t chase Otta into the borderlands out of concern for her civilians. She did it because Otta was making a power grab that she didn’t care for, and she must realize someone who can fight a maneuver like that can also make one herself. She must realize that the two of them don’t need to live by August —

The carriage stops.

“What’s going on?” Anton demands, in perfect synchrony with Calla.

“There’s some trouble in San-Er,” Galipei replies, not sounding the least bit concerned. “We are making a stop in Eigi’s security base overnight, until the disruption passes.”

Anton scoffs. By disruption , he must mean people are once again marching on their streets, calling for an end to this rule.

“You don’t want to get back quickly?” he goads. “I wonder if the threat has grown too big to contain.”

Galipei is unfazed. Outside of August’s body, nothing Anton says will prompt any reaction out of the guard, because Galipei Weisanna does not care about the opinions of anyone other than August Shenzhi.

“Stay put.”

Movement flurries around them, guards streaming forth from the carriages and barking orders outside. Anton is sitting still—obediently, disgustingly—when a new set of steps climbs into the carriage. The door slams shut.

“If we’re going to do this”—Calla’s voice is a shock to hear, scratchy from uttering her first full sentence since they left Rincun—“can you at least take off our blindfolds?”

“Take them off yourselves,” August returns. “They loosened one hand, didn’t they?”

Anton doesn’t wait for the next opportunity. He pulls the fabric from his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust. This borrowed body has long hair, and it gets all over his face. While he’s gathering himself and brushing everything back, Calla is slow to remove her blindfold, easing it off as though she might be told halfway to stop.

Their eyes meet. Calla scrunches up the fabric and throws it to the floor. Without her yellow color, he doesn’t know who else would believe that this is Calla, short of knowing her habits. Her bitten thumbnails and her chafed lower lip. Her instinct to stare awhile before answering a question, taking more time to read someone’s expression than socially acceptable.

“I’m not happy, August,” Calla says. She tugs her wrist, pulling taut the rope that connects her to the seats. “If you must act tough in front of your guards, fine. But I’ve been on your side from the beginning, and I should think that warrants more trust than being tied to a carriage.”

“That trust dissipated the second you realized Anton Makusa was occupying my body and didn’t kick him out,” August returns. “Apologies if you feel that it isn’t fair.”

“She tried, don’t worry,” Anton interjects. “It’s not her fault I wanted the throne.”

August turns his glare on Anton now. “Where did you think this was going to end? That no one would notice? Impossible.”

“Highly possible,” Calla says. Unwittingly, she and Anton have become some sort of tag team, taking turns to counter August. “All he needed to do was kill Galipei. You should be thankful he showed mercy and avoided that route.”

“I’m coming to regret being so merciful, actually.” Anton can’t help it. He lines up the shot and takes it: “Especially if you had anything to do with the death of my parents. Revenge was easily accessible. Take that into account for whatever trial you’re about to give us.”

He senses Calla grow still. This is the first she’s hearing about this.

August, however, doesn’t appear surprised to be confronted. He laces his hands in front of himself. His posture is overwhelmingly straight. Though his clothes are slightly ragged from the road, he has changed into a new jacket, a solid white that the cities would quickly dirty.

“I didn’t,” August says shortly. “But I did hear about it shortly thereafter, once Kasa’s instruction went through. It was better you didn’t know.”

“Was it? Or were you afraid I’d revolt in the palace?”

To tell the truth, Anton has always been a little afraid of August, but he’s aware the feeling goes both ways. Anton has witnessed August having no limit when it comes to climbing ranks in the palace. August has witnessed Anton exhibit the same behavior when it comes to the depths of his loneliness—his frantic jumping, his frivolous discarding of bodies. He moves fast to escape the fear that he could encounter a similar fate, because nothing in this world will scar him the way his parents’ deaths scarred him, and he’ll suffer eternity remembering what that day felt like.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” August says, but his black eyes flit away.

If, in Anton’s youth, he had discovered that King Kasa ordered his parents to die, they wouldn’t have needed to wait until Calla snapped and planned to kill him. Anton would have done it first, committed regicide from within the Palace of Earth, and then where would August be? Another forgotten noble, shoved around meaninglessly while the council battled to put someone onto the throne.

“There was nothing you could have done about it,” August continues. He remains impassive, as he always is, as he always has been. “Your parents were working with the Crescent Societies to put themselves on the throne. It was high treason, and you should be thankful that they became victims of a rural attack rather than suffer your family name dragged through the mud if they were charged accurately.”

Anton lunges, but the rope holds him back from reaching August. Calla stomps hard on his foot to tell him to ease off. He barely feels it, barely feels anything past the cold rage that slides liquid down his throat.

If it’s the last thing he does, either Anton will kill August Avia, or he will accept death trying.

“Enough,” August declares. He shifts toward the carriage door, easing himself out of the way lest Anton try again. It doesn’t matter: the rope holds solid. “Out of respect for the both of you, I’ve come to share that we’re not bringing you into San-Er. The climate is too volatile. You may testify on a broadcast we’ll send into the capital, and you will stay at the security base to await trial.”

This must be a joke. Testify on a broadcast ? August isn’t offering them a trial in the slightest. They are going to stay imprisoned at the security base until their bones turn to rot. They are going to give San-Er enough material to show that they have been defeated without being made into martyrs, and then Anton Makusa and Calla Tuoleimi are going to disappear.

“You need to be more specific,” Calla says. A note of alarm threads through her words.

“What is there to specify? I am giving you the opportunity to speak your part. You can tell the whole truth, Calla. Tell them that we worked together to depose King Kasa. It doesn’t matter to me.”

August doesn’t fear the council anymore. The council functions solely as a fail-safe to a king’s achievement of total power, and he must believe that it is one push away from falling entirely if he is granting Calla permission to drag him down.

August opens the carriage door.

“One request,” Calla says.

August stops. Turns back.

“If you want a broadcast, we need our bodies back.” She leans into her seat. When she speaks, she’s not looking directly at August, but she’s not looking anywhere else in particular either. Her teal eyes are unfocused. Thinking. “Mine especially. San-Er will think you hired some actor otherwise. They will ask whether you take them for a fool, wanting them to believe that the first person who jumps without their qi changing the eyes is the princess in confession.”

August is quiet for a moment. He considers her carefully.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, if that’s what you’re evaluating,” Calla adds, matter-of-fact. “What is there left, August?” Her foot taps the side of Anton’s ankle. “We can’t fight you. We have no forces but ourselves. Who remains standing except you?” Another tap. This can’t be an accident, but there is nothing that Calla would be prompting him to observe. It seems to be nothing except assurance. A reminder that she is here. A reminder that she knows he is there.

August rolls his eyes. “There is no need to flatter me, Calla.”

“It is not flattery. I am stating the facts. You have plotted this long and this thoroughly to take Talin, and there is no remaining loophole. You will return to San-Er and tamp down the chaos with force. You will order your soldiers to take action in the provinces and wipe out any revolutionary groups that bear ill will to the throne. Nothing we do or say here changes a thing.”

It’s hard to tell whether August agrees with her. He makes a noise, then walks away, signaling for his guards to watch the carriage.

Anton fidgets, leaning forward to get a better look through the open door. The moment the thought of escaping crosses his mind, Calla shakes her head at him, a silent warning to stay put.

Five minutes later, Galipei appears with their birth bodies. They’ve so kindly made sure the bodies are already blindfolded and bound.

“All right,” Galipei snaps. “Get back in.”