Chapter Eight: O, Sons, Forget Your Fathers
With the malevolent wings, the meridians of death, I have seen you - at the gallows,
You have killed again. As always. As your fathers killed. As the animals killed.
- Salvatore Quasimodo
Yue Yukimura did not expect to see the King in Exile when she stepped outside of the safehouse in the early hours of that afternoon.
Saran had passed her a note in the sitting room earlier that day to say that Uzohola had promised them a walk down into the ruins of the town below, if they wanted to stretch their legs and glimpse the sky, for just a few moments. Uzohola had approved four girls for such an expedition: Saran Altai. Corvina Rouen. Ekaitza Jones. Yue Yukimura. Almost without noticing, the four had become a kind of unit. Yue would have to be blind not to see that Cor probably had something to do with it, but if she was totally honest with herself, she had to admit that she craved such a bond, no matter how artificial. When you were raised in such a cloistered, cold serenity, any breach of the same represented a total upheaval of all you had once known.
And if anything was a breach, then King Demetri Dunin, second of his name, Lord Paramount of the Illéan Territories, qualified as a total rupture of the same. Like all that had held Yue firm had abruptly torn, and left her falling, spinning, adrift.
He was standing where Täj usually did, leaning against the white picket fence around the safehouse, looking up at its darkened windows like if he could just look beyond them, then all the answers he so desired might be laid bare. That was the first thing that Yue noticed: his gaze. His eyes, to be more precise: a perfect green, too deep and whole to be compared to mere emeralds, what her father would have called ao rather than midori, the green of natural and wholesome things: a tree in new spring bloom, grass springing back underfoot, moss creeping gradually across the face of some abandoned structure. Jewel tones, thought Yue, not shallow glossy green.
The second thing she noticed was the sheer, awful damage that had been done to the face in which those eyes were set. His right brow and orbit were just receding from an obvious swelling, the colour fading from a dark charcoal nearest his lashes to a pale violet brushing his brows, a dark green spreading outwards towards his temple, a much more nasueasous shade than the colour of his eyes. A small set of stitches, no larger than the thumbnail of a baby, had been placed quite delicately along his left eye, a small well of yellow pus pulsing beneath. His lower lip was swollen and split and stained a nasty dark red, like spilt wine had sunk in along the tissue. His right cheekbone, usually so sharply defined in images, had disappeared beneath a sunken and bruised mass of tissue.
And yet, those eyes.
Like she was cut adrift when they fixed on her.
She had expected her heart to beat faster. Instead, it just felt hollow, and light, and almost entirely absent, like the space beneath her ribs was entirely empty.
"Good morning, Lady Yue," Demetri said. His voice was as smooth and warm as it sounded on the Report, even coming out of that ruined mouth, burst lip and swollen philtrum and all.
"...your Majesty." Yue dipped herself, quite poisedly, into a curtsy. "It is an absolute honour..."
"I didn't expect to meet anyone." Demetri looked like he would have smiled, if it wouldn't further jeopardise the healing of his split lip. His eyes did the smiling for him. "Here, I mean. I didn't mean to disturb any of you."
"You aren't disturbing anyone, your Majesty."
Demetri looked like he doubted that very much. "Even so. I am sorry our first meeting must occur..." He paused, and brushed a thumb across the worst of the bruising on his zygomatic. "Under these circumstances."
Yue didn't mind.
But she could not hold her mind back from spinning new threads of thought, wondering - what, exactly, had happened? How had a king found himself in a situation where this kind of damage could be done? Who exactly had been on the other end of the fist, the knife, the... whatever had happened here?
He didn't seem inclined to offer any answers, so Yue did not ask any questions.
"I am glad," she said softly. "That our first meeting has occurred, your Majesty."
Demetri's eyes threatened to outshine the bright desert sun. "As am I, Lady Yue. And may I say, you look absolutely beautiful." She blushed - if she had at all predicted that she might run into the king, she thought she might have chosen something a little more elegant and flattering than a pale pink skirt and white blouse that left her olive skin bare at her shoulders, across her collarbones. Such a casual outfit, for her first meeting with the king. She was wearing sandals. "How are you finding the Selection so far?"
Yue paused, and turned her words over in her mouth like a mint before she spoke. "I did not know what to expect, your Majesty, but I am finding it to be a most interesting experience. The other girls here have been wonderful company to me, and the Court in Exile most excellent hosts."
Demetri ran his thumb along his lower lip, and did not wince as his nail scraped against the wound that lay there. "Lady Yue, you have a way with words." Yue almost flinched. Why did those kind words sound like a criticism? "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"I am, your Majesty, so far."
"Nothing else we can get you?"
"No, your Majesty, nothing at all."
Demetri tilted his head as a bird might, his green eyes bright and inquisitive. "Did you like the books I chose for you?" It was such an honest question, and asked with such a heart-felt curiosity, that Yue felt her heart lighten in that peculiar way once again.
Yue spoke softly. "They were absolutely perfect, your Majesty."
"You hadn't read them before?"
Yue hesitated, before she decided that truth was probably her friend in this situation. "Yes, your Majesty. I read Anna Karenina when I was young. But it's an old favorite, so I was glad to read it again. I find it a comfort, truth be told."
"I have always believed Tolstoy to be one of the true old greats. Such a way with words: he stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking. If only that man could bring himself to write a happy ending, he might be my favorite author. Fitzgerald was the same, married to misery. Or do you prefer tragedies, Lady Yue?"
The way he looked at her, Yue could believe that he wanted to hear what she had to say. She could not help it; the words spilled out of her. "Tragedies, your Majesty? No, your Majesty. I always believed stories are these... little perfect microcosms of hopeful thinking, a tiny crafted world in which we learn to love these... flawed yet flawless characters. They may go through tragic events but I have always thought that at the very least that hope should shine through at the end. Even in some small way." She paused. "Your Majesty."
"So I suppose you prefer a Jane Austen sort of tale?"
"They're sweet and light, your Majesty, I like them well enough."
"But your favorite author, if you had to choose?"
Yue paused. "I don't think I've found one yet."
Demetri smiled, despite his split lip, and the world was bright. "Please let me know if you do, Lady Yue. I am always looking for recommendations. I have plenty of time to read in exile."
The door to the safehouse swung open. Uzohola was framed in the threshold there, looking as elegant as she ever did with her hair wrapped up in a blue silk turban, dressed in a waistcoat and suit trousers to match, her black shoes gleaming in the orange sunshine like an oil slick on an abandoned highway lit by street lamps. "Your Majesty," she called. The term of respect sounded somehow foreign in her mouth. Her dark skin was very bright in the warm afternoon light. "We're ready for you now."
Yue had almost forgotten that he was here for a date with another girl. They had announced it in the sitting room the night before, at the same time as the eliminations: the first date, with Liara Lee, a willowy girl with dark hair and dark eyes and a father loyal to the false queen Ysabel. The second date, with Vardi Tayna, the small, waspish girl who rarely left the room next to Yue's, and played music at almost all hours. Yue couldn't say it hadn't been a disappointment not to hear her own name announced, but this conversation with the king, short as it had been, had been more than enough to entirely dispel any sorrow.
"Thank you, Uzohola." Demetri straightened and tugged at his jacket to straighten it. Yue had almost failed to notice how he was dressed - a navy blazer over a crisp, clean white shirt, almost blinding under this southern sun, white as the snow at home, white as a new sketchbook page unspoiled by the stain of ink or charcoal. He had a pin just above his breast pocket: the seal of the rebellion. Was Yue imagining it, or did he seem a little ill at ease dressed like this? He was utterly relaxed as he stopped and glanced back at Yue, like he had just remembered something interesting. "Oh, Lady Yue. Have you ever read anything by the poet, Nizar Qabbani?"
"Qabbani, your Majesty? No, your Majesty."
"Well, if you'd like, I could arrange to lend you my collection of his work. I think you might like it - and if you don't, I'd love to hear why not the next time we happen to meet." Demetri moved away from the fence. "Hopefully in more ideal circumstances."
"That would be... absolutely perfect, your Majesty."
"It was lovely to meet you, Lady Yue."
Yue watched as Demetri moved lightly up the steps to offer Uzohola a ginger embrace ("careful now, ribs still broken, Uzo") and the two disappeared into the safehouse for Demetri's first date.
Yue found herself hoping he had a wonderful time on that date, even if it wasn't with her.
"Lady Liara."
Liara glanced over at the door, and, seeing the co-ordinator Uzohola at the entrance to the music room, rose respectfully from the low stool at the old grand piano. Her greeting died in her throat as she realised that there was a man with Uzohola, tall and lean, shoulders a little broader than the rest of the his frame, like he was still waiting to grow into them. And yet it seemed that the concept of awkwardness was wholly foreign to him, and it was not unless Liara had been scanning him for every physical aspect that she could see that she landed upon these flaws, minor though they were.
"Your Majesty. Ms Ndlovukazi." Liara had not seen any of the rebels adopt the usual formal protocols of the royal court - curtsies and bows and titles and the rest - but she knew that if Demetri wanted to claim the throne of Illéa, he couldn't much protest if she acted as one ought to around the heir to the throne of Illéa. So she lowered herself into a neat curtsey aimed at the man who was calling himself Demetri, and lowered her gaze to the ground.
"Lady Liara." Demetri's voice held only the ghost of an Angeles accent - just enough to make him sound sophisticated to the ears of one was unaccustomed to what a real king or queen sounded like. Truth be told, though his voice was smooth and even and pleasant to the ear, Liara found it difficult to discern any distinguishing characteristics from how he spoke. No heavy accent marred his words. "May I just say what an absolute pleasure it is to see you." His green eyes skated across the room and settled on Liara, cool and steady. "Again, I should say."
Liara nodded, and Demetri moved across the room. He gestured to one of the armchairs beside the bookshelves ("please, won't you sit down?") and waited for Liara to settle herself very carefully on the plush cover before he sat down himself. To her surprise and suspicion, Uzohola did not excuse herself, but remained standing by the door, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed immovingly on her shoes. Wickaninnish Harjo, the rebel who had escorted Liara to the music room about a half hour earlier and whispered a hasty good luck to her, had similarly retreated to stand beside the coordinator, his rifle slung low across his shoulder
For Liara's safety, she wondered, or for Demetri's?
"How are you settling in?" Liara stared at Demetri. She had known it would not be as simple as meeting him - just seeing him, just glimpsing his face, just hearing his voice - but somehow a tiny wave of disappointment still rose under her ribs as she traced his features with her gaze. It had been fifteen years. She had known she would not be meeting Demetri as he had been - a fair-haired six year old with intelligent eyes and the slightest stutter, prone to long moments of melancholy and thoughtfulness that was probably nothing more than a young boy attempting to imitate the gravitas of his royal father. And yet, coming face to face with a stranger was disorientating nonetheless. The injuries that had been done to his face meant little. Liara wasn't sure she would have been able to identify much even if he had been totally whole and unblemished. He was any young man, from any family.
Clearly, she thought, it wouldn't be that easy.
She shrugged. "It's fine, your Majesty."
"Only fine?"
"It's very early days. I can't say I've entirely made up my mind about this whole process just yet."
"You sound very skeptical, Lady Liara." There was no familiarity there in his voice, no warmth, no friendliness. He held himself so formally, she thought, like she was more a threat than a childhood friend.
Was she a threat? Could she be?
She had a note from the false prince Mordred in her pocket, threatening to burn a hole through her skirt. She had left a note for the false prince Mordred in the palace, a single promise etched within: I'll find you the truth. Liara Lee had her flaws, but she never broke a promise. She never had. She did not intend to break a promise now. And she had made a promise to the false prince Mordred.
Was she a threat?
The real threats here were standing by the door. Her life would be in danger if either Uzohola or Wick had any idea of her true intention. She knew that she could not allow that to happen.
"Well," Liara replied. "No change there, your Majesty."
If he realised that was the slightest test, his face betrayed no indication. "I don't remember you being a cynical child, Lady Liara. That always seemed to be my role, if I recall correctly." That was true. Demetri had always been much more cautious and fatalistic than the others. Liara had been the leader, the one to come up with the reckless ideas, the best adventures. Mordred had been at once her most trusted lieutenant, and an absolute wildcard - and that second part was still very much true. Unpredictable didn't begin to describe it. Liara had not truly become so aloof until after Demetri's disappearance. Mordred's cruelty, similarly, had come later. In the aftermath.
"A matter of perspective, I suppose."
"Perhaps." A long silence persisted. "Do you wish to return to the court, Lady Liara?"
"...to return, your Majesty?" Was this so-called date truly just a dressed-up elimination process? Had they learned something? Was that why Uzohola and Wick were waiting by the door, to escort her out, to carry out some sort of execution? They had eliminated seventeen girls before Demetri had even encountered them. Liara knew her presence was a constant concern for the rebels, and that her use as a propaganda symbol would wane with every day that passed. They would be able to exploit the simple fact that she had voluntarily defected to the rebellion for as much propaganda and morale as they pleased - what was her continued participation in the Selection worth?
"I worry, Lady Liara, that this place might be too far removed from that to which you are accustomed. That you might be uncomfortable here, in the south, in the sun, in... more rustic accommodations. I know, when I first arrived here, it seemed a whole other world. Your comfort is my absolute priority."
"How long did it take you to settle in," Liara asked. "When you first arrived here, Demetri?" The name slipped out almost naturally. She blanched. "Your Majesty, I mean. My apologies, your Majesty. I meant to say..."
He waved off her apologies. "Please, don't worry. An easy mistake to make among old friends - although, if you try to call me Demmy as you used to, we may need to have words." He flashed a brief smile that stetched his split lip wide. "When I first arrived, Lady Liara, I had a great many advantages to help me settle in very quickly. A wonderful group of friends. Caretakers who looked after me very well. The best mentor I could have asked for."
"A mentor, your Majesty?"
"General Klahan." Demetri said it like he was describing the weather, but Liara wanted to twist her skirt into knots in her hands at the mention of the man's name. The General. The military mind of the Kingdom in Exile. The man that Mordred had killed.
The man who had taken Demetri.
"A very great man," Demetri said of the man who had stolen everything from him. "A very great leader. And a fantastic father."
A father? Demetri had a father. Trajan had been a good man. Liara had seen for herself that the stories about Trajan were not mere propaganda - though he had kept an entire kingdom on his shoulders, he would always have the time to give Liara a small smile and pluck a flower from a nearby bush to place lightly in her hair, ruffle Mordred's hair gently, ask Demetri how his day was going, like he was an adult, like his voice mattered. Liara had wished, when she was young, that Trajan was her father, rather than Commander Lee. She wanted Demetri and Mordred to be her brothers, to protect her, to play with her, and to never leave her. She wanted Ysabel, kind and poised and elegant, to be her mother, and dote on her, and braid her hair before bed.
General Klahan had reminded Liara of her own father sometimes. There was a harshness there, an edge beneath the skin. She had not found it such a great sin that Mordred had killed him.
Now, sitting across from Demetri, she wondered about that.
"I hope his children are doing well," Liara said. "His death must have been such a shock to them. Mordred..."
Demetri cut her off quickly. "His daughter is doing just fine, thank you. I will pass your condolences on to her when I can."
A long silence hung between them. Demetri didn't inclined to speak further. How could that be, Liara wondered. How could he sit across from the only person in the world who simultaneously knew who he had been, before he was taken, and did not want to put his head on a spike, and have nothing to say? Liara had gone over so many stories in her head, little anecdotes that were funny only their adult selves after many years had elapsed - the time she had fallen out of a tree in the palace gardens and Demetri had dislocated his shoulder trying to catch her, the time Mordred had talked them into sneaking into the throne room in the middle of the night to try on the king's crown and spin the sceptre like a cheerleader's baton, the time Ysabel had set up a picnic on the palace roof for the children of the court so that they could see the fireworks commemorating the tenth anniversary of the king's coronation shatter the Angeles sky into a thousand vivid colourful shards. Liara had gone over every detail. Ready to ask. Ready to talk.
Did he not want to speak about it? Or did he not remember them, because he was not Demetri?
"Your Majesty," she began - a breach of protocol, do not speak unless spoken to, but she couldn't force herself to hold it back much longer. She was interrupted abruptly by Uzohola, who stepped forward, looking at her watch.
"Your Majesty? My apologies. Administer Givre will be expecting you."
Demetri nodded, and rose from his seat before Liara could even process what Uzohola's words meant. "Of course. Lady Liara, I had a wonderful time."
"That's it? Your Majesty, that was barely fifteen minutes..."
"That's all I have time for."
"Demetri, please." Liara could not hold back the words. They spilled from her, a tsunami. "I know you know who I am. I can see it in your eyes. So why..."
"Thank you for your time, Lady Liara."
Demetri gestured, and Uzohola snapped open the door. Wick was still keeping his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. Was he looking sorry for Liara? Her pride faltered. How could the king treat her like this? How could her old friend treat her like this?
Unless he was hiding something.
And yet he had spoken so much like the Demetri she had known.
She watched him go, and said nothing further, only inclined her head politely as Demetri glanced back to say a final goodbye, though her nerves were dancing with anger and frustration.
A small part of her still wished her old friend was still alive, and walking out of the music room right now.
The most rational part of her was scared of what would happen if he truly was.
True to form, for their first date, Demetri brought Vardi Tayna to an execution.
She was standing in the desert when he arrived, about three miles west of the safehouse like she had tried to run, head tilted away from the sun, arms folded, scuffing the sand with the side of her shoe. Somehow she managed to look even more murderous when she caught sight of him. It felt strange, Demetri thought, to see her like this - him in borrowed clothes with his bruises half-healed, her in a short skirt and her hair wound up into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. She walked over towards the car as he slid out of it, and he watched her eyes darken as they took in the thorough devastation that had been done to his face.
"So," Vardi Tayna said darkly. "Who am I killing?"
Demetri laughed and gently pushed her hands away as she went to touch the stitches. "Fuck's sake, Vardi Tayna, it's not that bad."
"You look like a cadaver, Dimusha."
"So, better than usual?"
"That's not difficult." There was the slightest smile in her voice, but her eyes had not lost their serious, angry look. She didn't seem inclined to push the issue, however, because at Demetri's words she had lowered her hands and now she slipped one thumb through Demetri's belt loop and looked up at him. Demetri wasn't tall. Vardi Tayna was just tiny. Wick always joked that was why Thiago liked to stand next to her when he wanted to seem intimidating. "You taking me out someplace nice, darling?"
Demetri rolled his eyes, but could not stop the edges of his mouth from turning upwards. "Let's keep those expectations low, sweetheart."
"With you? Always."
He pushed her away, laughing a little, and she did not resist but stepped away from him, laughing, her eyes bright. Demetri hadn't realised until this moment how much he had missed her. Vardi Tayna had been quarantined from the inner circle and cloistered amongst the rest of the Selection for over a week now, which shouldn't have seemed like much - in the past, she had frequently disappeared on spy missions for longer, and with almost no notice, but, Demetri thought, there was something nastier about the sheer proximity of it all: knowing Vardi Tayna was sleeping in the same building as Täj and Wick and forbidden to speak to them, knowing that she had been cautioned not to look Demetri in the eye or speak to him before being spoken to, realising that she was expected to stay in the safehouse and act as a stranger to the rebels that catered to the Selection's every whim.
"Get in the car," Demetri said. "We'll be late."
Vardi Tayna looked very suspicious, but she did as she was told. Most unlike her, Demetri mused, but he followed her and had to immediately slap at Vardi Tayna's boots as she put them up on the dash. "Shoes down, this is a rental."
"A rental?" Vardi Tayna looked enormously doubtful. "Demusha. It's one of Malone's shitty Mazdas."
"And you're getting dust all over the dashboard."
Vardi Tayna laughed and straightened up, instead setting her elbow on the edge of the car window and leaning her head on her hand as Demetri started up the car again. He was a careful driver - someone who grew up with Täj was bound to be. The only person who willingly got into a car with the pale man anymore was Vardi Tayna, who herself had totaled so many vehicles in their childhood that Thiago had issued a general edict that she wasn't to be allowed back behind the wheel until she had paid for each car and truck with a new informant or some valuable piece of information. She was, Demetri understood, not yet paid up on that front.
Demetri, on the other hand, was widely denigrated by the others as overtly cautious, too slow, unduly hesitant. His father had taught him the most elementary aspects of driving, not the General or some other rebel with a need to get from A to B as quickly as possible and very very little to lose. His father had been a good driver, a safe driver. Demetri had never shaken some of his habits. Uzohola had despaired of travelling with him when they were young. "Nkosana yami, my princeling," she would say on long journeys, quite sadly, leaning forward between the two front seats from her habitual position in the back. "If you insist on driving like this, our new kingdom will be dust by the time we get where we're going."
Vardi Tayna, at least, didn't seem inclined to complain. She was watching Demetri closely, her gaze tracing the shape of his bruises, his cuts, the new stitches beside his eye that looked due to be removed. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel like there were hooks going through your skin. She was looking at Demetri like that now.
"What?"
"I didn't say anything."
"You're looking."
She shrugged. "I am." Her lips twitched. "Would you rather I didn't?"
Demetri looked over at her and smiled. How had ever managed to befriend a girl who insisted on being so... unfriendly? "And Täj tells me you're having difficulty making friends in the Selection. Quelle surprise." He wondered if Liara had friends in the Selection. He found it hard to imagine that Yue did not.
"I already have friends." She said it like it was obvious. That was a very Vardi Tayna answer, Demetri thought. Sometimes he thought she would be happy to live in a mostly empty world, just space to move and things to see and maybe one or two of the inner circle at her side if she was feeling sociable. Now, Vardi Tayna sounded darkly amused. "They're fucking idiots, but you know, no one's perfect."
"They are," Demetri agreed. "Idiots."
He swerved around a pothole where a landmine had once laid, and shifted gears as the reached the hills and started to climb. Vardi Tayna said, "how have you been?", and Demetri gestured to his face and said, "can't you see?", and Vardi Tayna said, "that isn't what I meant", and Demetri replied, "you tell me, seems like everyone knows what's going on in my life better than I do", and Vardi Tayna frowned and said, "you can't blame other people just because you're unobservant" and Demetri snapped, without looking at her, "they eliminated seventeen people" and Vardi Tayna said, a note of wry amusement in her face, "there was only one working shower, they needed to go", and Demetri said, "before I even met them, Vee?" and Vardi Tayna just shrugged and said "yeah, that was pretty shit" and Demetri couldn't help but laugh at just how simple she made it all seem.
"Don't swear in front of your king, Lady Vardi."
"Lady Vardi." She sounded like she wanted to vomit the words rather than simply say them.
Demetri just laughed.
"It was," he agreed. "Pretty shit."
They pulled up and slid out of the car. Demetri pointed to the crest of the hill, and without needing an explanation, Vardi Tayna started to walk. Demetri fell into step beside her, and, quite spontaneously, said, "so apparently I actually went through the windshield when we crashed."
Vardi Tayna coughed out the kind of laugh that only ever follows the misfortune of a friend and said, "what do you mean apparently? You don't remember?"
"I hit the ground hard, Vardi Tayna."
"Could you imagine? All these years of hunting and chasing and running and you get done in by a car crash?"
"I'd almost be okay with it," Demetri said. "Just to see Ysabel's face."
At the edge of the hill, they came to a plateau that overlooked a small valley below, the kind of sheltered, shadowed space in which the Kingdom in Exile did its bloodiest work. Demetri watched Vardi Tayna's face very closely as she looked down into the valley, and saw the men gathered there - two with golden hair, one with dark hair.
One so pale as to be wrought from mist and ghostlight.
The dark-haired man was already dead. Pandora operatives always carried poison. The pale man would bury him with the rest.
Watching the way Vardi Tayna's eyes softened, for the shortest second, looking down into that valley, Demetri wondered if it was a vain delusion to think that any of the girls in the Selection would ever look at him like that. Even, like this, for a second.
Vardi Tayna didn't stay soft for long."It could have been worse."
Demetri looked at her. The words hung in the otherwise empty air, sharp and harsh. Vardi Tayna didn't seem to know how to blunt the most abrasive of her edges. Or maybe she knew she didn't have to, when she was with Demetri.
"What do you mean?"
"The elimination." Vardi Tayna set her jaw. "None of the women here want to marry you. They want to marry the king. They want to marry Demetri Dunin, heir to Illéa. They want to marry the crown. They couldn't give a shit about you, Demusha."
"What about you, Vardi Tayna?"
"I don't give a shit about you either."
"Really." The ghost of a laugh in her voice.
"Never have." For the briefest moment, she was not Vardi Tayna, the dark-haired wraith, Thiago's favourite little bird, and confidant to the king, but the little girl she had been when Demetri had first met her, no older than six or seven, and as feral as a child could be, all dirt and blood, arteries dripping from between her teeth, just looking for her next meal, just looking for someplace to sleep, craving a kind word. Demetri remembered her as a single dark-haired girl in a sea of blonde boys, the single Daughter among the Sons of the Rebellion, and recalled how she had pressed a slice of bread into his hand and widened her eyes dramatically to indicate he should eat it quickly, before it was stolen by some other hungry orphan. His first words to her had been, "my parents just died" and the little girl had made a face and said, quite exasperatedly, "join the club, ese" and the General, then a cold and cruel stranger to Demetri, motives and motivations unknown, had been unable to hold back and had laughed so loud it had made Demetri jump.
"I find that," Demetri said. I don't give a shit about you. "Very hard to believe."
Below them, there was a loud crack and the first man dropped. Täj stepped over his body as the second man realised what was about to happen, and began to struggle against his ties. Vardi Tayna was still looking down, her gaze still fixed on the pale man. Demetri rather thought the sky could have shattered around her, shedding stars like so many dropped coins, threads of dying light unspooling in piles around her, and she still would not have looked away.
Demetri did not bother to hold back his question. There were few people he could be unguarded around. There were still fewer that he could demand the truth from. "Why?"
"What do you mean?"
She knew what he meant. She wanted him to ask her.
"Why do you join the Selection, Vee?"
"Why do you want to know?"
Her response was so absurd it almost made him laugh. "I think I already do."
She had folded her arms. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep, her face drawn and pale. She did not answer.
"The General," Demetri said. "Before he died. What did he tell you?"
Vardi Tayna was silent.
"The General," Demetri said again. "Why did he tell you to enter?"
"What man doesn't want his daughter to be a queen?" Her voice was very soft. It had been weeks since the General's death. Demetri still hadn't seen her cry. Maybe she never would. When she was upset, or stressed, or angry, Vardi Tayna's voice had a way of tightening that made it sound like she was speaking with a noose around her throat. "What girl doesn't want to marry a prince?" Was that grief choking her, or a strangling lie? "The General didn't tell me to enter."
"You're lying -"
"I think you're being paranoid, Demusha."
"I think," Demetri said, a little distantly. "I'm being observant." He paused. "If you wanted to marry the prince, you would have said yes the first time he asked you."
Somewhere beyond the edge of the world, a coyote was howling. It was a long, low, plaintive sound. The wind stirred Vardi Tayna's hair, very gently, just enough to make it seem like the sky was trying to give voice to some small fear, whisper some warning into their ears, as they looked down at the king's executioner going about his business. Täj had walked over to the second man. He had not seen Vardi Tayna and Demetri on the hill above him. They did not look at one another. They stood apart.
The sun was sinking quickly. Vardi Tayna's voice was almost sad. "First?"
"What?"
"You said first." Vardi Tayna's hair silhouetted her face, a beautiful study in contrasts between shadow and relief. "The first time he asked me."
"I did."
"Not," Vardi Tayna said, very softly. "The only time."
Below them, another man fell.
Demetri said, his voice very low, "let's keep those expectations low, sweetheart."