Chapter Twenty Six: In The Humming Wires
He'll wrap you in his arms, and tell you that you've been a good boy.
He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy.
- Nick Cave
The little village of Layeni lay before him, its streets winding and unwinding like the grey tendrils of a spilled bottle of ink. It was like so many of the tiny hamlets strung along the spine of the Wastelands, the thin artery of the Kingdom in Exile along which the pulse of the rebellion throbbed. The tiles and the cobbles and the flowers were all aglow with color, the streets now stained with the bright detritus of the first night of the lover's festival. From here, it all looked so delicate, so fragile, so frail. One could almost imagine crushing it in a single hand, curling up all its edges.
And here, high above Layeni, his Yenifer was waiting for him.
She was wearing a pale green sweater several sizes too large for her, her thin frame positively drowned in the fabric, and her hair had been scraped roughly back into a braid, leaving strands escaping every which way. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, with the ease of one for whom comfort was still not an entirely familiar concept, and rubbing at the mark on her arm as though she still harboured some hope of pulling off her own skin.
And in that moment, she looked so much like her sister that she was almost painful to look at.
"Little one. You're all grown up."
She looked up. In her eyes – there was no simple label for that emotion. It was not quite fear. It was not quite respect. If he was being sentimental, he might have thought there was some pale vestige of affection there.
But he was not a sentimental man.
"Still a cunt?"
"Yes," Yenifer said. "That's how I tend to be." That was true. He had never known her to be otherwise.
"And I suppose you tend to be too much of a cynical bitch to give your brother a hug as well."
Her lip curled. "I don't remembering you signing a register."
"Mere semantics among kin. More kin than any down below."
No one looking at them would ever have mistaken them for kin, of course. They weren't even of the same race, though they shared very dark hair and very dark eyes. He was very tall and very thin, with the face of a brute, and he had long thin fingers with which he reached into his waistcoat to pluck a letter from the pocket within. He extended his hand out to Yenifer. "His Highness sends his regards."
Yenifer's jaw was set tightly, tense like the string of a violin, and just like the string of violin there was a clear risk of a snap. "I imagine he does." She moved to rip the envelope from his hand, but he jerked it back again, cocking an eyebrow as he did so.
"Ah, ah. Kakaya glupaya suka. What bout mine?"
"It's done. I've sorted it."
"Have you." He dropped the envelope almost lazily into her hand. "Good girl."
The thrum of tension along her jaw once again, like a muzzled dog trying desperately to refrain from biting. "I do try to be."
"I hope," he added, and tucked his golden hand back into his pocket. "That this is all worth it in the end. You'll have to win now… else you've just judased all your little friends for naught."
Her eyes were set on his shoes. "Da."
"You'll name your first son after me, won't you?" The man with the golden hand smiled. "I always thought King Artur had a ring to it."
And all Yenifer could say was, quite softly, "derivative."
Today, as it sometimes was, the window in Cor's cell was dark and she could not see her sister's form in the adjacent room. Sometimes, when they did this, Cor felt a small needle of fear slowly slip into the chambers of her heart as what they might be doing to Khione when the lights were off. Sometimes, she was – and oh, how Corvina Rouen hated to admit this, even if only to herself – sometimes, she was afraid.
Only sometimes. Only sometimes. Most of the time, she just got a little angrier, and the knot of rage twisted a little tighter in her gut, and she felt her heart harden a little against what would be, what must be. Oh, they would regret this. They didn't know it yet, but they would regret this, more than they regretted anything else they had ever done. She would make them regret it.
Launching a rebellion would seem a picnic compared to what she would do to them. She told herself this again, and, yes, she meant it as much this time as much as she had the first time she said it. Demetri's head on a spike. Thiago's head on a spike. Whose else? Wickaninnish. Uzohola. The whole damn Inner Circle.
This thought was Cor's main companion as she fell asleep – the scarce hours that she could sleep in this cell, of course. The same part of her that had compelled her to eat the food she was given in order to conserve her strength for whatever came next also compelled her to take whatever scarce hours of rest that her mind and the chill damp of her cell allowed her.
There was a powerlessness here, a lack of autonomy that galled Cor to her very core. This whole situation reminded her – painfully, uncomfortably, hatefully – of the orphanage in which she had spent the first years of her life. She had been in that place for thirteen years, from the day that her parents had been put to death to the day that she had been turned out onto the streets of Angeles. Thirteen, she mused, was an unlucky number for her. It always had been. She had been here for much longer than thirteen days, of course, and that, to her mind, meant that her luck was probably about to turn.
That, or things were about to get much worse.
They hadn't allowed her much. Thiago had ordered that they not issue her any cutlery with her food, and an early attempt to smash the plate given to her had proven fruitless and time-wasting. The feet of the bed had been welded to the floor; the food they provided was bland mash of something that she did not think likely to contain any poisons or acidic qualities; and her clothes proved, rather infuriatingly, unsuitable to creating either a garrotte or a noose.
That left Corvina Rouen in a bit of a pickle. But Corvina Rouen was not the type of person who gave up easily.
She was in a cell, and everyone knew you could escape a cell in one of seven ways. Seven, of course was a luckier number. You could go out through the window, if they had given you a window; you could go out through the light source, or the ventilation source, if there was any chance that it would go somewhere that wasn't even less pleasant than where you already were; you could go out through the walls or the floor, if you weren't twenty five feet under the ground already.
Or you could go out through the door.
The dramatic part of Cor really wanted to pick that last option, if only for the sake of her reputation.
But that, of course, meant finding some way out the front door and that, more than anger or fear, was what kept Corvina Rouen awake at night.
It was lucky, then, that she was awake that night when Ekaitza Jones came to her door with a rifle on her back and blood on her hands.
Blood on her face as well, now that there was light on in the room, and Corvina could see around her. Ekaitza looked worse for wear – not just her hair, shaved down to a length that suggested her scalp would make a handy substitute for sandpaper if any situation called for it. She had a small silver ring on the little finger of her right hand, with a sharp hooked spike protruding from it, its edge marked with red like rust. It looked as though someone had tried to gouge out one of her eyes – that was a favourite tactic of the black widow queen, Cor knew. But as Ekaitza drew closer, it became more apparent that this wound was more like a bullet's point of entry, mostly healed but still obvious. A mark against a member of the Selected, Cor wondered, or against a member of the rebellion?
Or, if Ekaitza had considered Cor's offer as carefully as she had seemed to – a member of Pandora?
"Long time," Ekaitza said, "no see."
Cor sat up on her cot. "This," she said, "Is unexpected. Where is Zenith?"
Ekaitza squinted at her with an expression that suggested Cor could have been speaking fluent Akkadian and would have been making more sense. "I didn't see any zenith on my way down." She gestured that Cor should stand. "We have about… three seconds to run."
When she stepped back to the door, Cor saw that she was stepping over a body. The prone form of the one-armed rebel who usually accompanied Thiago – what was his name again, Phineas? Or was it Mikhail?
Cor never had learned the difference between them. She guessed now she never would.
The first thing that struck her, upon stepping out into the hallway, was how low the ceiling was and how unfamiliar it looked after so long in the cell. The floor was dimly-lit by what looked like emergency lighting strips running along the walls where skirting boards would have been in an ordinary house; the general bunker-like atmosphere of the whole space meant that the identical pattern of the corridors that unspooled like thread in either direction to the pathways that lay in the hotel above did little to comfort her.
After so long in the cell, this did not feel like freedom.
"Alright," Ekaitza said. "Let's go." She started walking away, only to stop after just five steps when she realised Cor wasn't following. She turned; in the dark, her eyebrows, her eyes and her mouth were just black slashes against the shadow of her angular face. "Rouen."
Cor wasn't following; Cor was walking away, down the hallway to the next room along, the twelve to her cell's thirteen. "This one."
"Rouen. We don't have time."
"I'm not leaving until you open this door."
Ekaitza was scowling; even in the dark, Cor could tell that much. "I took a big risk coming to get you. I put a lot on the line. Can you swing your dick some other time?"
"You're Pandora. You do as I say."
And as soon as she had said that, Cor knew she had fucked up.
Ekaitza took a step towards her. "I've got nothing to do with your little… street gang." Before Cor could bristle at the description, the northern smuggler pressed on. "Lissa Dove was murdered, and she said that you were next. I came to get you before that happened. This is an act of charity, not service."
Cor recoiled. Dove… murdered? When? How?
Her next? No. Thiago would have executed her already if that was to be her fate. She would be rotting six feet under if she was meant to die at their hands.
Unless.
Unless there was, and she was quite sure there was, some split in the rebellion. Some bad blood, some bad faith, some actor in the shadows who had murdered one of the Selected and was waiting for their chance to come down here and kill Cor as well.
Against orders. Cor would never have stood for the like of that in her organisation but, it was rapidly becoming clear, a civil war that sprawled so wide and bloody was rather harder to keep into line.
So who would it have been? Tayna? Täj? Thiago, waiting for the moment that Demetri was not watching?
Or maybe it went deeper, more convoluted than that. Cor knew what she would have done. Maybe Phineas – or was it Mikhail? – had been told to come down here and kill her, to remove a thorn from the rebellion's finger, and then they would be dragged out in front of the Kingdom of Exile and denounced as a traitor and executed in turn.
Plausible deniability. That's what it was all about.
And it struck Cor again that this could very well be what was happening, but with Ekaitza wielding the knife. But the smuggler was still standing in that gloomy circle of half-light, looking mutinous, with the air of one who was ready to sprint away rather than wait for Cor to do what she wanted to do.
Cor paused, and took a deep breath. So many days under the earth, away from other people… you caught flies with honey, after all. And so, she spoke softly. "Jones. They have my sister."
And she saw Ekaitza relent. "I feel our three seconds slipping away," she muttered, rather bitterly, as she retraced her steps back down the hallway towards Cor. "If we die down here, I'll kill you, Rouen."
Atiena didn't think she had ever had the pleasure of experiencing a true hangover, but waking up without knowing where she was – that was an experience with which she was not totally unfamiliar. What was a little stranger, if she had to say, was that she had a quilted blanket drawn around her shoulders and a coat rolled up under her head and her shoes were lying neatly beside her, though she was otherwise fully dressed. And it didn't feel like she had a black eye, or bruised knuckles, or a broken wrist. That was very strange, all told.
That, and she was in a room she did not recognise.
That was enough to make her jerk upright, reaching for a gun, but her instincts were quelled at the soft voice which called from the adjoining kitchen. "Don't worry, iswekile, you're alright."
Uzohola stepped around the couch and into Atiena's field of vision. In the pale light of morning, Atiena could not help but think she looked… was radiant the word? Unearthly. Light fragmented through her golden-brown corkscrew curls, splitting into tiny strands of glittering red and bronze. And her skin. Uzohola was darker than Atiena, the colour rich and warm. She was wearing what Atiena thought at first was a silk robe, though she wasn't sure where in the Wastelands you'd find silk. She still had a dark blue mark on her cheek, and the corner of her cupid bow lips. Who had been wearing blue?
"Did you sleep okay?"
"I… uh, I…. yes. I slept well. Where…?"
"This house was requisitioned by the rebellion when Layeni swore allegiance to us. Xïta has been staying here during the Selection."
Xïta… that was the blonde man Uzohola had been sitting with for most of the night before. Atiena thought he held some minor role in the rebellion's Ministry for Social Matters; it wasn't a part of the Kingdom that she was all that familiar with, when it came down to it, but it was a reminder, as so much in Layeni was, that at the root of all of this fighting and killing was the hope for a new nation. She had spent much of the previous night subjected to a lecture from Wren, the blue-haired Voice of the Report, about the difficulty in practice of eliminating the castes which had existed in Illeá for so long.
"The Anchorites do fine without them," Wren had explained, Farid asleep with his head resting in her lap. "But if you have lived your whole life with a number – what were you, Lady Atiena, a Six? – and then that number is taken from you…"
And Uzokuwa, on the other side of the fire, had said rather darkly, "one cannot change one's ways so easily."
So they had whole teams of people whose sole role was integrating the different social strata of the conquered land, of teaching Twos and Eights how to sit at the same table and do the same work and not see one another as different species of human being. Atiena thought this was probably the type of work that Xïta did. Or maybe, as his name suggested, he was just another Anchorite pressed into the ranks of the revolution. He would not have been the first, or the last.
And there he was, sitting at the little wooden table in the kitchen adjacent to the living room in which Atiena had been sleeping. He was dressed, yes, but in that hasty half-dress of early morning, not intimate enough to be unseemly but enough so that Atiena felt forced to avert her eyes. Ah. Yes. She did recall mention of Uzohola's… lover seemed too archaic a word, and yet to think of a leader in the rebellion of dust having something as trite as a boyfriend… it was the same problem that Atiena had always encountered whenever she tried to put a name onto what she and Veronica had had, back when she and Veronica had had it. She had never known what to call Veronica.
Now, of course she knew what to call her. Judas. Traitor bitch, if she was feeling unkind, and she often was, when she thought about Veronica. What could she say? Having your heart torn out tended to create a bit of bitterness.
She didn't know what to say now either, except a hasty, "I'll leave you two in peace" as she pulled on her shoes and stood. She had slept on the flowers in her hair – they had been crushed beneath curls, so that a few stray petals now fluttered down in front of her face to land on the couch and carpet as she turned to pick up the jacket that had been placed under her head. It was a familiar one – Uzokuwa's. Yes, she was beginning to recall now. Uzokuwa had officially welcomed her into the ranks of the military of the Kingdom of Dust.
And she was late for her very first patrol.
"Are you sure?" Uzohola's eyes were the warmest golden brown that Atiena had seen, and they were wide now. "We can prepare you some breakfast…."
"No. Thank you. I'm, uh, your brother is expecting me, actually." Atiena grinned, rather hastily. "Don't want to make a bad impression on my first day."
"Uzokuwa has a soft spot for you. I think you'll be okay no matter what." Uzohola paused, and held something out to Atiena – her Sako TRG, the sniper rifle that had been taken off her upon her entry to the Selection. Returned to her now, upon her elimination. That was it, Atiena thought, that was it, she was out of the ranks of the Selection and into the ranks of the rebels – back, in all truth to where she belonged. "Don't forget this," Uzohola said wryly. "Oh – you'll be accompanying us to the Sahara Federation once the festival is ended. Demetri Dunin's official bodyguard, if that suits."
Atiena took the gun. Its weight was familiar and comforting, like having a limb reattached after many years of phantom pains. "I was hoping to finally get some time away from him," she said, and was rewarded with a laugh from Uzohola.
"Oh," she said, "yes, we hit that point about ten years back. I'll see you at lunch, I suppose?"
"Yes," Atiena said, "you suppose," and then, because she didn't really know what else to say, she turned and she walked away, gun in hand, to join her patrol.
They were all dead when she found them.
All of them. All the rebels she had come to know, all the young men she had drank with the night before, all the young women that she had helped to support over to the river the night before so that they could press their foreheads against the ice and pray not to vomit, at least in front of whatever other young rebel they were trying to charm.
Now, here, lying dead, dead and still and staring: Farid, the dark-haired Announcer of the Report with the voice like caramel and half-finished tattoos on his back; Anzu, the commander with the shaved head and massive burns on the left side of her face who coughed out her laughs on the few occasions she did; Bruno, the little Layeni native who had claimed to be eighteen when everyone else in the patrol knew he was only thirteen at most; Aapeli, the Finnish sniper who had come west to Illea and south to the Kingdom because he thought the cause was pure; Mikhail, one of the bleach blonde twins distinguishable only by their number of remaining limbs, until you learned that Phineas slouched; Wren, the blue-haired Voice of the Rebellion with a smile like lightning….
No, Wren was still moving. Wren was still moving. Atiena ran to her, dropping to her knees, and pulled the girl over onto her back, staring down at the scarlet marks peppering her jacket. Her mouth was still blue, Atiena thought, rather dazedly. She hadn't even got the chance to wash her mouth.
Killmonger's voice was in her ear, as physical and tenable as if he was really there, standing over her, watching and listening and protecting. Triage, baby girl. Wren was still breathing, still bleeding. She still had breath, still had blood. That was good. Not everyone could say the same. That was good. Triage and secure. Whoever had done this could still be around here. Whoever had done this was still around here. They had to be. They would be here, and they would be watching. Where…?
Dammit, the Selection had made her soft, had made her rusty.
"Wren," she whispered. "Wren, what happened? Wren, stay with me…."
A shadow fell over them. Wren's eyes, still and staring, did not so much as flicker. Atiena reached for her rifle, and could not hold back the little cry that rose from her throat as a boot came down on her hand and crushed her knuckles into the ground. Fuck!
"It's a shame." The name came to her, without her needing to really think about it. Ndlovukazi. "I did like you, Atiena. It really is a shame."
Corvina Rouen was free.
Marjorie Vermudez was not sure of the reaction she had expected from Thiago, when this news reached them in Fennley, where she was still acting as his assistant. However, it was fair to say that a smile and a glance at his watch was not precisely how she had expected him to respond.
"I see," was all he said, and the messenger had gone away, and Marjorie had risked a quick glance over at Thiago only to see that he had returned to the business of sewing up his coat. He had torn a hole in the sleeve sometime back in Hansport – Marjorie couldn't say for sure when or where, only that he seemed to treat it as the highest priority to restore it again. It was, after all, the coat that had belonged to King Trajan, if you believed the stories. If you believed the stories, it was the coat that the General had taken from the still-warm corpse of the dead king and awarded to his spymaster lieutenant, just before he had taken the dead king's son. And it was (again, according to the stories) the most valuable thing Thiago Wesick had ever allowed himself to own.
Marjorie didn't make a habit of believing stories, but she believed that one.
He continued at his business, and Marjorie continued at hers: methodically breaking down Thiago's rifle, and then reassembling it as quickly as she could, her hands moving with an uncertainty and caution even after so many hours of practice. She couldn't be too hard on herself. She had never handled a gun before that week, but a shotgun had been thrust into her hands at the Waverly border with instructions that if a Crown soldier came at her, she was to aim for the centre of mass and shoot. That was it – no ammunition, no tutorial, not even a strap to carry it by.
"And if two come at me?" she had asked, rather dryly.
"Oh," Thiago had said, "turn it on yourself."
They had not encountered any Crown soldiers, and that evening, Mouchard had sprawled in the dust and shown her how to load more shells, how to eject the spent casings, how to aim and how to clean. "This is an old one," he had said, in that low rumble of his. "Very old gun. Likely to jam. This gun will get you killed, little Jori."
Marjorie had gone straight to Thiago and demanded a new one.
To her surprise, he had given her one the very next day. Appropriated from the Crown munitions factory in Paloma, he had said shortly, and shown her how to remove the safety. He had repeated the advice from the day before: always aim for the centre of mass. Squeeze the trigger. Pray.
Marjorie had written down this advice as though it were something esoteric, and returned to her practice. She had been steadily improving all afternoon but now, with those words in her mind – Corvina Rouen is free – she found herself unable to focus as she once had, her hands slipping past each other, the components catching and sticking against their siblings. Corvina Rouen, she thought, is free. And Thiago, head bowed over his sewing, seemed to care not.
He had started to grow a beard. Marjorie thought it suited him a little better than the clean-shaven look with which they had crept through Paloma some weeks earlier.
She said, as casually as she could, which wasn't very, "Cor's a small girl."
Thiago made a quiet noise of agreement, but did not look up.
"Small target," Marjorie continued. "Hard to focus on the centre of mass there, si sabes a lo que me refiero."
"Pienso lo mismo que tú." He did not waver, did not look up, did not even change his tone of voice as he said, "Something like Corvina Rouen, you do not shoot."
No, Marjorie thought, you lock her up under the ground and you kidnap her family. Clearly. Obviously that is the sane response here.
"Something like Corvina Rouen," Thiago continued, his voice almost lazy as he turned the garment in his hands and inspected the sleeve seam on the left side. His movements were languid and casual. "You do not strike with intent to kill."
Here was the one bit Marjorie could do fluidly, jerking the charging handle free and then removing the bolt carrier, not quite in the same motion but nearly. She focused on that now, knowing that Thiago would speak when he felt he needed to.
"Something like Corvina Rouen." He glanced up at her. Marjorie remembered thinking before that he might just favour her because they were both Mexican, but there was something else there. Sometimes being with Thiago was less like accompanying her commanding officer, and more like spending time with her shadow – not her shadow as she was, but the shadow of the person she was about to become. Other times, she thought she just wasn't getting enough sleep if that was the best comparison she could come up with. "You must cripple before you kill."
Marjorie said, "like hunting elk."
"Something like that." Thiago seemed pleased with his handiwork. He stood. "Cut the head off a hydra, and two grow back. So you do not go for the head. You go for the limbs."
Marjorie frowned. "Locking her up?"
"That was step one."
"And step two?" Marjorie thought for a moment. Those letters. She thought of what Thiago had said to Bernard Givre – we intercepted one of the messages moving north from the Selection. She had wondered for a long while what that might have meant, and thought she might be on the cusp of finding out. "You fed them misinformation?"
"Lissa Dove sent a letter shortly before she went missing."
"We intercepted it," Marjorie said, "we intercepted letters from Lissa Dove and from..."
It was starting to make sense. Slowly, but starting.
"We caught them, we changed them, we set Ekaitza Jones on her path..."
"And this," Marjorie said, with some scepticism, "has something to do with Gildas, doesn't it?"
"Gildas has been... regrouping in the dark for a while now."
"I thought you said we couldn't open up a war on two fronts. We couldn't contend with him, not with the breakthrough into Fennley."
"Correct."
"And we don't have the resources to contend with Pandora. We are stretched too thin. So..."
Thiago shrugged his coat on. "So we cripple it. Cripple them."
"Take out one leader," Marjorie said slowly, "and encourage the other to make their move?"
"Keep Pandora staggering long enough that whatever remained of the Gildas organisation would get cocky."
"You..." Marjorie shook her head. "It sounds like you set this up so that Cor and Artur would go after each other."
"Whatever remains of whatever's left," Thiago said. "Can be dealt with… at the end of all of this." He paused, tugging at a stray thread at one cuff. "But that will not be my duty."
Marjorie cocked her eyebrow. "Retirement so soon, old man?" She didn't think Thiago could be much older than thirty, but the tiredness around his eyes and the weather-worn quality to his skin made it hard to gauge exactly how old he was. He could have been fifty, truth be told.
"Si la cosa en mi cabeza tiena algo que decir al respecto. If the thing growing in my head has anything to say about it." Thiago caught sight of the expression on Marjorie's face at this pronouncement, and smiled. If it was anyone else, Marjorie would have thought it seemed a little fond. "You had to have guessed. You're a smart girl. I thought you would have realised Demetri assigned you to me for a reason, Jori."
"I didn't think…" She had thought she was an aide-de-camp, a secretary, a glorified personal assistant. Not a… what was he saying here? She was to be his replacement?
As though he could read her mind – "not yet. I have a few years left." With a flick of his wrist, he adjusted his cuffs so that the scars on his wrists, the legacy of some Crown torture, were obscured. "And you're not ready yet."
Marjorie was a curious girl, and although she could usually keep that curiosity contained, there came the occasional moment when she could not hold back a question. "When will I be ready?"
Thiago considered this for a moment. "I suppose," he said, "when you steal a secret from me."
"Any secret?"
"Preferably," he said, "the secret this kingdom was founded on."
True to what Vardi Tayna had mentioned that morning, the next component of the Layeni town festival was indeed a picnic – at least, a picnic in that quintessentially rebel style, where it was apparent to Liz that the entire thing had been pulled together with very few resources and plenty of creativity. As Saran had said the previous night, there was so much about these events that should have seemed tacky, but for the earnestness in which these festivities were all mired – it did remind Liz, at least a little bit, of farm life in Midston, where you had to enjoy the little pleasures in life while you had them and care not a bit about other people's opinions.
And it was, she thought, rather pretty. They were standing on the green space which fretted the space between two streets, squeezed into what little free space the tiny town could afford to sacrifice to leisure and luxury, along which the river ran in a tiny tributary like a guitar string. There was a small, slightly greying collie dog charging in and out of the water, looking delighted with himself as he splashed those sitting closest to the banks. It looked like one of the sheepdogs that Liz had grown up with on her grandparents' farm, maybe a little smaller and a little more twitchy.
There were baskets dripping from the trees, where the previous night there had once been fairy lights, and patterned blankets in every colour, frayed and worn and gaudy, were spread across every spare patch of grass. There were speakers lining the balconies of the nearest apartment, balanced precariously atop wicker chairs and coffee tables, strewn over with flowers and sheets to make them look pretty. There was confetti stuck between the cobblestones here, some bright powder staining the pavement yellow and orange, some glitter still clinging to the walls of the neighbouring shops. Wick had pointed it out to them on their way to the green: someone must have got married recently.
Liz supposed it must be a romantic time to do just that. She wished the couple well, whoever they were. You needed all the luck you could get in this world, and Liz tried not to be bitter about the path her life had taken – if others could avoid her sorrows, then all the better.
Her hangover had mostly dissipated; she wasn't quite sure whether to credit this to Vardi Tayna's alcoholic cure earlier in the morning, or some effect of the crisp morning air. There was some scent on the breeze she couldn't name, vaguely smoky and vaguely floral, like someone somewhere was grilling roses; it was pleasant, and it was enough to guide them across the park to where the other Selected were waiting. Yue was still wearing her yukata from the night before, but Saran had changed into a less formal sundress, navy in colour and patterned with tiny crescent moons. Liz hadn't been sure how casually they should attire themselves for this event, and had tried to split the difference with a pair of shorts borrowed from Agares and a lacy green top from the market – a gift, Raphael had said, but would not say from whom it had come. She was glad that the sun had made a spectacularly bright appearance today, and that the air was relatively warm and still despite the chill and ice of the previous days.
Saran waved them over with big arm movements, smiling, and Eden said, glancing between the northerners and Liz, "how are you three not freezing?"
"They make them tough in Midston," Liz said with a shrug, and Saran laughed.
They sat together, the tight bunch of Selected, and Liz realised how few their number had become –the northerners, Yue and Saran; the new converts, Eden and Liara; those more familiar with the rebels, Vardi Tayna and Liz.
Just six. Nearly there. Was Liz going to win a competition she had entered only to get a chance to see the rebellion?
How could she, when she had only had a single conversation with the man at the heart of it?
And speak of the devil, for there he was – Demetri, winding his way languidly down through the throngs of people, dressed much as he had been the last evening, in a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, looking like any other young man at the festival. He had long legs. Liz wasn't sure why she hadn't noticed that before. Barefoot as well, which surprised her, although she couldn't quite say why. Looking around now, she could see that indeed most people were – it was clearly just the Layeni style. Several of the girls were now wearing the previous night's ai-katean as an anklet, and had clearly chosen their dresses to try and match the colours thereof. Liz rather wished she had thought of that, though she suspected such a gesture would make it seem as though Demetri's gift had meant more to her than it had.
Purple mallow, she had known the flowers by sight. Pretty. She wondered if he understood what the flowers had meant – mallow, her grandmother had always said, meant quite simply consumed by love. She wasn't sure she understood how he could possibly direct that towards her; she wasn't sure whether he meant it about himself. She didn't know enough about his relationships with these other Selected girls to say for sure – if indeed he have any, because Saran had mentioned that she had never really had a one-on-one interaction with the young king, and Liz suspected that the Mongolian girl was not alone in that.
He came down and smiled to see them. Liz thought it almost looked genuine, and it was clear that Yue clearly perceived it to be, given the wattage with which the girl from Whites returned the expression. Eden said, in rather measured tones, "good morning, your Majesty," and Saran inclined her head.
For her part, Liara just sort of… looked.
"Good morning, your Majesty," Liz echoed distantly at the same time as Vardi Tayna, glad that she would not stand up. His gaze roved across them, and she was struck again at how empty he could seem at times, like if he was not called upon to play his role he might just sit in an empty room and stare forward. Was that an unkind thought? She wasn't quite sure that she cared.
"Good morning, ladies." His voice was ever so slightly hoarse. A touch of humanity, Liz thought, as though he had been shouting or crying or sleeping poorly. "I hope you enjoyed last night."
"But not too much." Wickanninish Harjo, the man Saran called Wick, usually with a fond smile, was behind him, strong arms bare. Liz had always thought he looked like a man accustomed to hard work, and the callouses on his hands as he spread them now seemed to confirm her suspicions. "Well." He shrugged. His hair had grown out in the weeks of the Selection – Liz remembered seeing his image on the Illeán Report, with long hair and a softer face, before his cheekbones had sharpened, and remembered being surprised to see that he wore his hair short when she arrived at the safehouse. It touched his shoulders now, but he didn't seem concerned about it. It made him look slightly wilder. The rumours went that the General had saved him from death row as a teenager, and recruited him to the rebellion. Such an act summed up Liz's conflict about the rebellion: had it been an act of kindness or pragmatism? Salvation, or preying on a young man with no other options? "As long as you didn't get caught, I imagine it's all fair in love and war."
He was looking at Vardi Tayna. She was looking back, rather blithely.
"Don't listen to him," Demetri said, "he doesn't represent me."
He lowered himself down onto the ground on a spot between Liz and Saran, and Wick stood opposite, beside Eden and Liara – which seemed for the best, Liz thought, because those two had been acting rather tensely all day. She could imagine why. She might have defected from Crown territory, but she was – she always had been – from a sort of rebel background. Crown enough that her fiance had died for their cause, rebel enough that her mother had died for theirs. One foot in either bloody world. Liara and Eden didn't have those nuances. They were meant to be royalist to the bone.
Wick said, "it's traditional to pick your own berries for breakfast. Would one of you ladies be kind enough to accompany me?" He held his hand out to Yue and the northern girl – with a shy glance in the direction of Demetri and Liz – took it, and stood, and then turned and held her own hand out for Saran. It was, Liz hated to admit, slightly adorable. Eden looked as though she were going to ask Demetri for the same thing, but then there was a call from the other side of the green from a man in an acid yellow waistcoat and hair shorn roughly short as though by force, and she offered Demetri an apologetic look before she went to see what the fuss was about. Liara tipped backwards to lie down in the grass, her hair spread about her like a halo, and the pale light making her look slightly ethereal. She looked so utterly relaxed around her king, and Liz remembered again that they were childhood friends – or, at least, that was how it had always been portrayed. She imagined even that kind of friendship could become strained, slightly, by long separation.
She and Wyatt had been childhood friends as well.
Met at seven, in love at fifteen, engaged at eighteen.
Dead at nineteen, of course, but that was the way these things went.
Vardi Tayna stood and went to the nearest tree to pull the basket down from its boughs. She set it on the blanket between Liz and Liara, and, stretching, said, "I'm going for a swim," to no one in particular.
The little collie dog looked delighted at this pronouncement.
Demetri reached forward and flicked open the basket. Liz could not help but lean forward to peer within – all sorts of fruits, she noted, and bushels of berries, and a checked sheet covered a plate that she thought might have been meats or cheese. "I thought Wick said it was traditional to pick your own fruit?"
There was a tired smile in Demetri's voice. "Wick likes to complicate things."
Liz thought of Saran. "In all senses?"
Demetri sighed. "Apparently."
Liz reached into the basket and pulled out a pomegranate, and then a second, and then a third. "I'm sensing a theme."
"It's their season," he said ruefully, by way of explanation, "a little later than usual this year. Not enough acidity in the soil – we had to ship out sphagnum peat to try and save the harvest before the frost hit."
Liz smiled. "Do you know much about farming, your Majesty?"
For a split second, she imagined he looked almost stung, almost surprised by her scepticism, and then it was gone, vanished and replaced by his usual relaxed placid response: "I try to know a little bit about a lot, Lady Elizabeth. But I'm never afraid to learn a little more."
"That's admirable. I suppose you'll be a real man of the people by the time the capital is won."
Demetri paused. "That is the dream."
"Boring dream."
"What's yours, then?"
Liz couldn't help but smile at the abrupt profundity of this question. "It's early in the morning for such talk, your Majesty."
"I find time rather loses its grip when you're in Layeni."
Indeed. Liz had noticed that. After being in the bunker with Nina and Sol and Opal for so long, the strange way that the days passed here in the village – simultaneously stretching out into forever and also passing in a blur that suggested more time was slipping past than she realised – was hard to adjust to.
"I always wanted to be a midwife," she said, by way of answer. "That seemed… like a good thing to be."
"Very noble."
She glanced at him. "Sarcasm? Really?"
"I'm rarely sarcastic, Lady Elizabeth." He cracked open the pomegranate with his hands; the juice stained his hands, very palely, with pink streaks. "Very rarely."
"I find that hard to believe."
"You seem very cynical."
"Do you think I shouldn't be?"
"I try not to tell people what they should be."
He offered her one half of the fruit. She did not take it from him; instead, she reached out and plucked out two seeds from it, thinking of how their shape had always rather reminded her of a heart.
"What about you?" She bit down on the seed. It was sweet, maybe a little tart, like despite the best efforts of the harvesters, they had not quite reached total ripeness when they were gleaned. "Would you call yourself a cynic, your Majesty?"
He seemed to be considering the question, as he mimicked her motions and helped himself to two of the seeds as well. "I'd like to consider myself a realist…."
"But?"
"I've been reliably informed my vision of reality is far too optimistic."
At first, she was close to laughing, but then she, quite abruptly, recalled their conversation from the night before.
"I don't think I've ever heard one end happily."
"Makes them realistic, don't you think?"
She wondered what Demetri knew about unhappy endings.
And then Liz turned, and caught sight of the men and women milling about the edge of the square with rifles slung over their shoulders, and remembered where, exactly, she was.
"That sounds," she said, rather quietly, "like a good quality to have these days."
"Yes." He smiled. There was something about that expression – not a smile, more like a grin, less restrained than any expression she had seen him wear during this whole damn travail. It reminded her of boys she had known back in Midston, of the guys that would hang out around playing pick-up basketball in the back lot of the local feed store, of the way Wyatt had smiled at her whenever she came out with a particularly hard or cutting opinion. "I find it comes in handy."
"I'm sure something will dent it," Liz said, "sooner or later."
He was about to reply, when his gaze abruptly flicked to the left, over her shoulder, and all the life that had been in his face – all the personality and role – drained in a single instant, as quickly as if a faucet had opened. He did not say anything, only took Liz's hand and gestured that she should stand, and stand she did. Liara, as though alerted by the sudden silence, opened her eyes, and glanced over at them, and stood as well, and looked in the direction that they were looking, and even Liz could tell that they were probably meant to be looking at the man in the suit threading his way through the crowd just as Demetri had a few minutes earlier.
Liz kept her voice very soft. "Do I want to know who that is?"
Demetri squeezed her hand very gently. "My fairy godfather," he said, quite darkly, and nodded at Wick, who had appeared quite silently at his side, as a guard dog might stand at his master's side. Wick put his hand on Liz's shoulder and pulled her behind him, as though he were a shield, as the dark man in the suit approached Demetri with the air of a generous uncle at a family reunion, holding his arms open as though he expected the glowering king to embrace him.
He had, Liz noticed, one golden hand.
"Vashe velichestvo," the dark man said, or something that sounded like it. Was that Russian? Liz wasn't sure. "You haven't changed a bit, little one. Where is my boy?"
"He's not yours."
"As much mine as you are." The dark man patted Demetri on the cheek and stepped back, scanning those before him – Wick, Liara slowly stepping away, Uzohola approaching from the back with her hand on her gun. "Quite the entourage. You don't trust your old uncle Artur?"
"We both know the answer to that, I think."
"It's a festival, gavryusha. If there's any time for a truce, it's now. Let's sit down, get a few, have a catch up, shall we?" Artur's eyes were still scanning across the group. "I've brought some wine, if that changes anything."
Demetri nodded, his eyes sliding over to Wick.
Artur held up a hand. "Let's keep the girls, shall we? Bit of decoration never goes astray."
"No." Demetri's voice was firm. "I think not."
The dark man tsked. "Demetri. Selfishness in a king is a dreadful trait."
"I can think of worse."
In front of Liz, Uzohola threw Wick a slightly wild look. Liz didn't need to be a seasoned rebel to know what she was asking: where are the guards? Liz didn't know who this Artur guy was, but it was apparent Demetri didn't want him around. So where was his protection when he needed it? Uzohola thumbed off the safety on her gun, and angled her body so that it was not visible to the dark man.
"Indeed." Artur sounded amused. "Naivete, for one."
Out of the corner of her eye, Liz caught sight of Uzohola's twin brother, Uzokuwa, stepping closer as well, and could not help but breathe a sigh of some relief. The field marshal had rather terrified her when she had first encountered him – something about the scar that marred the length of his jaw, still clearly visible despite the thick dark beard he had grown to cover it – but if he was here, the others could not be far behind.
"What are you here for, Gildas?" Liz thought that Wick's voice could have cut glass. He kept one hand on Liz's waist as though he was expecting to need to grab her quickly.
"Simply what is due to me. The way I see it," Artur said calmly. "This whole kingdom of yours was founded on a lie. A lie I sold you."
Liz was trying to keep very still, as though that could possibly protect her. Bizarrely, the thought occurred to her that she had never thought of humans as being prey before, but here, under this man's eyes, she could think of herself as little else.
That thought made it very hard to focus on the conversation that was playing out in front of her.
"Charitable interpretation of events." Demetri, cautiously calm.
"If you take one step closer..." Wick, dangerously cold.
"Liz." Liara, hissed under her breath.
"I won't ask again." Demetri, venomous.
"Wait. She didn't tell you?" Artur, honestly surprised.
"Ubhuti." Uzohola, barely breathed.
Ubhuti. Brother.
Almost on instinct, Liz looked towards Uzokuwa, who had raised his gun...
Raised his gun, and pointed it straight at Demetri.
And then, as though on cue, all hell utterly broke loose.
"I think he might like you."
Yue smiled and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, where she knew Kün was likely to still be looking at her – partially because she wasn't sure what she would do if he was, partially because she wasn't sure what she would do if he wasn't. "I'm starting to think so," she agreed, trying not too sound too arrogant at the admission – she was far from accustomed to people simply… liking her. It felt like she had tricked the people around her into finding her likeable, and like she didn't quite know how she had accomplished such a deception, and at any moment everyone was about to perceive the truth and leave her. "That's… not against the rules, right?"
Raphael smiled. "No," she said, "I don't believe it is."
Yue held up her little container of berries and inhaled deeply, smiling at the sweet and acrid scent that clung to them. "Okay," she said. "I'm trusting you, Rafa."
And she could not help but find it deeply reassuring and comforting that Raphael did not correct her, did not even blink an eye at the use of this affectionate diminutive, but merely said, "as you should, little Yue. When have I ever let you down?"
Yue could not, truth be told, think of a time. Raphael and Agares had been unnervingly kind to her throughout her time at Layeni. She wasn't sure how she would even begin to thank them, once this was all over. She wasn't sure how she could even begin to face the idea of going home again.
Maybe she could ask them to let her stay with them. She could get a job, pay them rent, find some place of her own eventually. Get a cat.
The idea, the mere abstraction of some cozy place of her own, was almost enough, on its own, to make her smile.
"Never," she said softly, and Raphael smiled.
"I aim not to start."
They went down to the river, where the dog – Feste, Cuckoo, Bruce – was splashing about in the water quite contentedly. Yue was gratified and pleasantly surprised all over again that he ran to her as soon as he glimpsed her, even though in doing so he drenched the cotton sleeves of her yukata as he rolled about in her arms for a brief moment and then bounced on again to greet Raphael in a similarly exuberant manner. An utter desperation to be loved, Yue thought, which seemed like a very strange quality for a dog that belonged to the Smetiskos, and who must have been mired in so much affection.
"Tch, calm down, Koo. You're making a fool of yourself." Raphael scratched the dog's ear, and then, in a fluid motion, pushed him into the river again in a gesture that Yue thought made it quite clear that the blonde woman must have had younger siblings. For his part, the dog seemed quite delighted with this affectionate cruelty, and went into the water with gusto, thrashing about in the water over to a floating remnant of ice where he attempted, once, twice, thrice, to climb up onto it and then slipped back into the water to roll about a little more.
"I think he's a masochist," Yue mused, and Raphael laughed.
"A martyr for love, aywa. I can relate."
They sat down on the river bank; a little farther upriver, she could see the Martyr's Needle jutting up awkwardly from the water, and the little concrete platform where she and Demetri had sat for all those hours the previous night, just talking and sometimes not talking at all, just watching the light play across the veins of the ice. The water was moving now, and the whole beautiful tableau was no longer so frozen and perfect and still – it was instead all movement, all rush and motion, like that night had been a single moment in which time had deigned to cease to move, and nature had stilled about them for just that purpose.
They were sitting some distance from the rest of the crowd. Yue liked the other Selected, and she loved the whole Layeni ambiance, but she could not deny that it was a lot of constant noise and company for a girl who was a little more accustomed to being lonely. Maybe someday she would get a little less accustomed to it. God, she hoped that would be the case.
And it was strange, because sitting beside Raphael felt similarly familiar and comfortable – she reminded Yue greatly of the king sometimes, or maybe it was more accurate to say that it often seemed to Yue that Raphael was the kind of person the king was trying to portray, trying to be, trying to become. She was a strong, solid, warm presence beside Yue, even without speaking, and Yue sensed that she could sit here for many long moments without that silence ever seeming awkward or uncomfortable.
She remembered Ekaitza talking about auras. If people had auras, she thought that Raphael and Demetri would have the same one – a deep gold or burnished bronze, something very pure and very warm.
Kün would be something paler, something sweeter. A lilac, maybe, or a pale fawn, like the dust of the land to the south.
"I noticed you were out all night." Raphael could sit here for many long moments without speaking, but she had clearly chosen not to.
Yue felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Oh. Yes. It was… we were just talking."
"You don't need to defend yourself to me."
"I know. But..." Yue could not find words with which to end this sentence, and wound up just falling silent anew and gazing out across the water. "It was nice," she said finally, "but… I'm not sure it'll mean anything. You know. In the bigger picture."
"I'm not sure I do know," Raphael replied, "but as long as you do, that's all that matters."
Yue shrugged and looked down into her little basket of berries.
Raphael said, "I have nothing but good things to say about every girl living in my house. And if I had to put money on it, I'd say that one of you three was going to win. I don't think he would have let any of you meet me unless you were in with an excellent chance – let alone live with me for months on end."
Yue still found it strange that so many people found it so ordinary to talk about love in terms of chance and winning. It was anathema to everything she had believed about how the course of romance ought to run. "I do appreciate that, Raphael."
"I am only telling the truth."
"Even so." Yue smiled down at her hands. "Um. Demetri asked me on a date for later today."
She sensed, more than saw, Raphael's smile in answer. "He did? That isn't like him."
"Well. I asked him."
Raphael laughed, reached into her container, and flicked a berry out towards the dog, who nearly flipped over on himself trying to catch it in the water. "Atta girl."
And then, as though there was some entity up in the sky who had determined that all this calm had gone on quite long enough and it was time for the storm, there was, quite abruptly, a loud crack behind them, like the sound of fireworks during Lunar New Year up in Whites.
A single crack.
Raphael's whole body appeared to alter in a single instant. Yue hadn't realised how totally a person could change in a moment – every line of Raphael's body abruptly became tense, and any sense of warmth dissipated instantly as she jerked her gaze towards the tree where they had left Demetri and Liara and Tayna and Liz. "Yue." Her voice was low, cool and collected, but a frisson of urgency ran throughout. "Where are the others?"
Yue's thoughts tumbled over each other as though all racing for the door in the same instant. "I… uh…. um." She blinked, hard, and tried to swallow. "I don't..." She shut her eyes. "With Demetri. Except Saran. Saran was with Wick."
"Okay."
"And Eden was with Enyakatho."
"Okay. Good."
Another crack, and a scream. Yue couldn't say whose scream. Who was that? Who was screaming?
Raphael jumped to her feet – she did that like Demetri as well, a single fluid movement – and she put her hand on the nape of Yue's neck, on the collar of her yukata, and she hauled the younger girl to her feet in a single fluid motion, as easily as a mother cat carries a cat. Yue scrambled to find her feet, and barely had time to do so, because Raphael was pushing her towards the bushes on the edge of the green, and urging her to keep low even as she urged her to move faster, faster.
Another crack, and then – like it had been triggered – an outburst of something more recognisable as gunfire from somewhere in the square, and then it wasn't just a single person screaming but six or seven, and then it was sixteen or seventeen, and then it was more than she could possibly hope to count.
And then it was everywhere as the people of Layeni realised that a massacre was underway.
They scattered. There were children here, Yue thought dazedly, little girls in sundresses with scraped knees and little boys with new shirts and berry stains on their collars, parents clutching their hands as they sprinted with the desperation of one who feels the reaper breathing down their neck and knows that with every step something might rip through them…
and kill them.
And kill them.
And kill them.
There was no way to say that nicely. That was all it was. They could die here.
Oh god. At least in the safehouse, the risk had been abstract, something far away, something that was coming. This was here, this was now, this was real and almost tenable.
"Stay close." Raphael's gaze was cold and hard. Yue hadn't realised this woman could look so terrifying, but the hand on her arm was steady and determined, like she expected to die before she would allow Yue to be parted from her. "Down. Down. Yue, now!"
Yue collapsed onto the ground and scrambled, feeling tiny twigs and stones dig deep into her palms and legs as she tried to do as Raphael had commanded. There was no way this could protect her, she thought, they were behind a bush, that couldn't protect her, a bullet would pass through that like air.
"Okay." Raphael's voice was low. "See the building?"
Yue saw the building.
"Yeah," she said. "Yes. I do."
"When I say run," Raphael said, her voice low. "Run. Okay? Run."
Yue barely had time to gather her breath again before Raphael had her up and sprinting again, fast, and Yue was almost glad to have all of her athletic experience on the ice to propel her across the street now, glad once they were off the grass because there was so much less of a chance of slipping once she was on the concrete and then they were up onto the sidewalk and then they were around the side of the building and Raphael was saying "down" and she collapsed, more onto her knees than anything else, and crept close to the wall as Raphael peered around the wall.
Yue bit back a scream as something landed heavily beside her, but it was just one of the Anchorites from the market, recognisable as an Anchorite because of the white lily pinned to his collar, recognisable anew as the eldest brother of the family who ran the fish stall. He worked there four times a week, Yue thought distantly. He had got engaged this week. She remembered seeing him and his fiance on the bridges during the festivities the previous night. She thought his name might have been Rëz.
"Rëz," she said, not quite knowing why.
"Yue," he said, looking slightly dazed. His face was pale under the warm tan of the Wastelands. "Have you seen Kün?"
"Kün?" Yue struggled to think. "I..."
A sound, not a crack but larger than that, a miniature explosion right beside her head, and Yue barely managed to swallow back her scream. Or could she have screamed, even if she wanted to? She wasn't sure her vocal chords would have worked if she tried. She wasn't sure she could muster the air required.
Raphael looked prepared to wrap her arm around Yue's face if the younger girl thought about trying.
There was a volley of fire behind them, a shout, a thud, more gunfire, and then Raphael leapt to her feet and tackled the silhouette that approached from the green, coming around the building as a mere shadow. She tackled low and spun so that the man was knocked of his feet and brought straight down onto the street. She struck him in the face – hard – and scrabbled for his gun, seizing upon it and flinging it away, towards Yue.
Yue could only stare at the thing lying in the dirt, her hands shaking at the thought of picking it up, of using it. She wasn't sure she trusted herself not to shoot herself or Rëz if she did so.
Raphael rallied back and struck again, and it occurred to Yue that she was probably going to kill him. Raphael Smetisko was going to kill this man with her bare hands. Yue knew this, with the same utter conviction with which she knew her own name. And it was only the shout of the man under her that seemed to still the woman from hitting a third time.
"Fuck, Rafa! It's me!"
"And?" It was a snarl, like a wild sound ripped from her throat.
Wickanninish Harjo had blood on his hands, blood on his shirt. "Fuck, Rafa, I'm not… I had nothing to do with this!"
"Yue. Put a gun on him."
Yue stared. "On…"
"Now."
The word was cold and final.
She scrambled for the gun – it was a handgun, she noticed absently, a small gun, like one you could conceal under your jacket – and picked it up. It was… it was so much heavier than she had ever thought a gun could be. Her wrist ached just raising it. Her hand shook trying to point it. She didn't even dare put her finger anywhere near the trigger, for fear some muscle might spasm. She could only point it in the direction of Wick and Raphael, so violently did her arms shudder when she attempted to point it true.
Raphael staggered back onto her feet, every muscle in her body alive like an electric wire. Wick wiped the blood from his face, and lurched back up, clearly unsteady. Yue stared.
What was happening? Whose blood was he wearing? Where was Saran?
Where was Saran? Where were the others? Where was Demetri?
Raphael held her hand out for the gun, and with some relief, Yue handed it over to her. She took it in a single hand, and aimed it on Wick with the perfect precision and stillness of an expert. "Harjo."
"Rafa. If I knew, I'd tell you." Wick spoke in low, clipped, urgent tones. "Gildas was here. Uzokuwa turned on us. There's… I don't know who we can trust but you can trust me."
"Uzokuwa?" Her voice sounded somewhat hollow.
"Uzokuwa?" Yue echoed.
"I was sent to find Yue." Wick's eyes darted back and forth. "They're evacuating the Selection."
"And I'm meant to trust that?"
More gunfire from the square. More screams.
"Yes," Wick said softly. "You're meant to trust me."
"You're my brother's friend, Harjo. Not mine."
"Then, please. Even if you don't trust me. Trust him"
Yue said, very softly, "I trust him."
After all, it was Wick. For Yue, in that moment, it was as simple as that. It was utterly elementary. Maybe she would be wrong, but if she was wrong about this, there was no way she would be right about anything else.
Raphael turned to look at her. There was something in her eyes, some deep sorrow, verging on a grief that had, perhaps, not yet found its reason for being. "Yue..."
"I do." Yue, shakily, took a step forward. Raphael put out an arm as though to stop her; Yue very gently put her hands on the other woman's sleeve and lowered it, and jerked in an involuntary spasm of terror as an explosion seemed to rock the entire square. "I do trust him."
"Yue. I'm meant to keep you safe."
"You've done that. You saved me. Please." Yue looked back at Rëz. "I'll go with Wick but can you please..."
"I'll stay with him," Raphael said, automatically, without needing to think about it. "You can stay too..."
"I know. I know."
Wick held out his hand, and Yue took it. She felt all the resistance go out of Raphael in that single instant. Wick pulled Yue close, and the two of them stepped around the cinder blocks in the alley, and Yue shuddered all over again to hear that a silence seemed to have descended upon the town square.
Somehow, that was so much worse than the screams.
"Rafa? Please?"
Raphael turned to look at her. That cold anger that had filled her eyes only moments earlier had dissipated utterly. She was the same kind woman that Yue had known for all these long weeks.
"Can you look after Kün for me? If you find him?"
"I'll find him." Raphael set her jaw. "If you're going, then you need to go now. Yue. Please stay safe."
"Of course."
"I'll see you in Angeles." The traditional rebel goodbye, insofar as they ever said goodbye. There was no time for hugs or goodbyes, no time for thank yous or nostalgia. Wick took Yue's hand, and they ran. They ran until Yue's lungs were burning.
And by the time that Yue was able to turn back and look towards Raphael and Rëz, Uzokuwa's men had reached them and there was blood everywhere.
Right up until this moment, Eden had not known that Layeni extended as far downwards as it did above the ground. It wasn't until Enyakatho Imfazwe had heaved back the manhole cover on the street between the bakery and orphanage and urged her to climb down into the tunnels beneath that Eden was aware of just how comprehensively the rebellion seemed to have prepared for the worst – and, it seemed, the worst had come.
The worst, or something like it.
Enyakatho threw her something – she caught it in two outstretched hands, and fumbled with it for a single moment. A pen light. She hit the button, and a thin beam of light illuminated the brick wall on the far side of the tunnel. It was mostly dry, but freezing cold; she was already shivering, but she could not quite say for sure that such chill was not due to the sudden terror of realising that she had come to the rebellion and now she was seeing the war.
This was what she had come here for.
"Enya." She did not dare speak louder than a hiss. "Are you coming with?"
"He did not answer, only whispered, "go east" and slid the cover back over the tiny hole of sky. And then Eden was left in the dark, in the cold, on her own.
Better than being with other people right now.
But the abrupt isolation nonetheless frightened her. Not alone the idea of being alone here, so far under the ground, but the idea of being separated from the others, of not knowing what was passing above ground. All of the others could be scattered. All of the others could have turned on one another. All of the others could be dead.
For someone who loved to be in control of her own story, Eden was feeling very out of control right now.
She turned, and her penlight bounced awkwardly across the walls and the hewn dirt of the floors. Nina would have been in her element here. Nina would not have felt the walls closing in upon her as she began to walk in a direction she thought likely to be east. Nina would have known how to move without making so much noise, without her legs shaking, without feeling as though she might not make it to the end of the corridor before something awful came after her from behind.
The path sloped, jerked right and then spiralled left, came up to a fork and Eden, haltingly, chose the direction she hoped was east. East was away from the river, she thought, east was towards the hills, and she scanned the roof of the tunnels for any sign of damp or moisture that might suggest that there was running water above, any sign of a change in rocks that might indicate she was heading towards the mountains, anything at all that suggested she was not going to get utterly lost down here.
There was such utter silence, she could almost hear her own heartbeat.
She had seen so little of what had occurred above the ground. Only seen citizens scattering, and hearing shouting, and watched Atiena sprint across the square towards where Eden had left Demetri and Liz to their conversation. Enyakatho had spirited her away before she could see anything else. Before she could become a target.
Had that been out of a sense of duty, or had there been some trace of affection in the urgency with which he had rushed Eden away? Had her concerted efforts to ingratiate herself with the rebellion profited, even a tiny bit, saved her life?
Ratas serán exterminadas.
She thought of all the threats that had been made against her, and thought of the sight of rebels turning on each other in the square, and realised that there was any number of people who had probably been trying to hunt her down to exact their promised retribution for the crimes of her mother.
Colaboracionistas serán ahorcados.
She had saved her own skin. Her instincts had been correct, all those months ago. She needed to trust her instincts again now. Could she? It went against all of her practical, pragmatic tendencies to do so. It was anathema to all that she was.
Traidores serán devorados.
There were no footsteps, no light, and no indication that there was anyone behind her until there was a voice in her ear and a hand over her mouth. "Don't scream."
She couldn't have if she wanted to, but the thought occurred to her to bite down, to rip skin and flesh, and sprint while she could – but she was in the dark, and she wasn't sure she trusted herself to make it to the next turn before this stranger had produced their gun. She grimaced against their hand instead and raised her hands to show she had no intention of making things worse for herself.
She would wait a moment. See what the story was. Run if she needed to.
She wouldn't need to. It was the rebel girl, Atiena. As soon as Atiena seemed satisfied that Eden wasn't going to scream and betray their position, she released her and stepped back, not even blinking as the Lahela girl turned the light on her Morris companion to make sure that she was still herself. The rebel from Tammins had a gun on her back, and a hand wrapped in gauze, and a long open wound running across her face, with a red swelling under one eye. If Eden's nerves had been any less steeled, she might have screamed anyway. Atiena looked like a walking corpse.
Eden said, "Enyakatho told me to go east."
Atiena said, "this isn't east."
Atiena indicated a passageway to the left that Eden had not seen, would never have had any hope of seeing, for it was set at about shoulder-height in the wall. With the other girl's help, she was able to climb up into it, and she followed shortly.
And they kept walking.
Eden and Atiena had spent very little time together, but Eden rather thought there was something about the Tammins rebel that she had always found rather likeable. She had always thought that they could have been friends, in a different world where they had not been raised on different sides of a minefield, where the war was nothing but fiction. Maybe it was something about the survivalist vibe that clung to Atiena Morris like a scent; Eden had been called paranoid a fair few times herself. She could relate. There was something almost alive about the silence that had descended upon them, like they were both utterly and totally aware of everything around them, waiting for the sky to drop down upon their heads, expecting a volley of gunfire to open up behind them and drop them down in a single instant.
Nothing happened. They kept going.
Above them, she thought she could hear footsteps. She stopped, and Atiena stopped with her.
Atiena held out her hand, and without protesting, Eden handed over the flashlight. The rebel girl clicked it in a pattern that flared staccato against the far wall – not morse code, Eden thought, because she understood a little of that and this would have been absolute gibberish in morse. Three short, one tiny flash too short to be called short, and two long. There was a long pause, and then, against the same wall – there must have been another corridor running parallel to them – was flashed an answer, a rapid burst of too many long and short for Eden to accurately count.
Atiena slung her gun into her hands. "It's Wick."
They moved forward, and found that it was. Wick and Yue, standing beside a ladder that seemed to lead upwards, back to the real world, back to the fight. Yue looked pale, dirty, but unharmed; Wick already had a black eye blossoming, a shiny purple mark showing up on one cheekbone, blood on his shirt.
There were no greetings; this was not the time for that. Wick gestured that Yue and Eden should start to climb the ladder and said, "if I'm not back in ten, leave without me."
Yue shook her head, and Eden answered before Atiena did. "That sounds like a terrible idea."
"Saran Altai is still unaccounted for." Wick's voice was utterly calm. "Atiena. If I'm not back..."
"Leave." Atiena shook her head. "Fifteen minutes. I'll pass on the message, but..."
"I'll be back. Look after them."
"Of course. I'll see you in Angeles."
Wick was gone before Eden could protest a second time. She didn't think she could have. She didn't think she would have. Saran… Saran was a good person. Now that Eden was safe, or approaching safety… it was good that someone was going back to save Saran.
For the first time in a long time, Eden found herself wishing that she was capable of saving people. Instead she was standing here, in a dark, damp tunnel, in a dirty sundress, hoping that an executioner would keep her safe long enough to betray her family.
To save her family. She had to remind herself of that. This was all… this was all for a purpose. That purpose was good.
God, she hoped Wick could find Saran.
Yue climbed first, and Atiena gestured that Eden should climb second. There was a wire grate over the passage at the top, but once they climbed through and out into the fresh air, Eden found that they were in the mountains, as she had suspected they would be – or at least, at their base, nestled among the gentle hills and juglan thickets that marked the first gentle ascents into the sierra.
And there was, Eden was surprised to see, a plane. Not a particularly sophisticated one – small enough, like a miniature version of the 737 that her mother sometimes took between Angeles and Fennley when she wasn't bothered to commute through the traffic at the weekends, but with a heavier, heftier appearance as though armoured. Maybe it was. She imagined that seemed a sensible precaution.
Uzohola was standing by the open door by the empennage of the plane, looking as rattled as Eden had ever seen her. She had remained calm all the way throughout the air strike on the safehouse; she had seemed laconic about every rebel setback reported from the frontlines; she had laughed about every single story of danger and daring that the Inner Circle had let slip over the previous night.
But now… now she looked uncertain. And Atiena looked angry. And Wick had looked scared. And that was enough to make Eden's bones lock up, and have her scan about her surroundings for exit options.
Uzohola said, "where's Wick?" and Atiena seemed not to hear the question as she guided Yue and Eden over to the loading bay and indicated that they should board the plane.
Board a plane?
They were running.
"Atiena."
"He's gone back. Where are the others?"
"With Demetri," Uzohola said tersely. "On the plane. What about..."
It had been maybe four minutes, Eden thought, four minutes since Wick had left.
Liz and Liara were indeed already on the plane, whose innards appeared to have been totally gutted – there were coats on the ground for them to sit on, but no chairs, no tables, no screens but for a single LED display set into the door to the cockpit displaying, in large symbols that she could not read:የሰሃራ ፌዴሬሽን. A Saharan language, Eden thought.
Liz looked relieved to see them. She was uninjured as well, Eden thought, and it seemed unfair to the rebellion to be surprised as well as relieved at the idea that none of the girls seemed to have come to any serious harm over the course of the last terrifying hour, but those were nonetheless the emotions that rushed through her as she collapsed down next to Liara and said, "the others?"
Liara just shook her head. "Your guess is as good as mine," she said, quite simply, and quite darkly, and Eden felt her heart sink a little. Across from her, Yue had curled up into herself a little; Liz was staring straight ahead, with the expression of one who had expected the worst and was decidedly unhappy to have been proven right.
Saran had never liked the idea of violence. Her siblings had always called her the peacemaker, for the simple reason that she had done her best to move through life as a perpetually pacifistic idealist. When it boiled down to it, the simple fact was that Saran did not like to see other people getting hurt.
And people were getting hurt all around her now.
"It's okay," she whispered. What was the name of this child with her, the war orphan she had pulled from the street and into her hiding spot in the Layeni library? She thought she had a good chance of guessing correctly if she called him either Wick or Demetri. "It's okay."
The little boy turned his eyes on her. Blue, she thought. Not many people had blue eyes in the Wasteland. This was Iuitl, she thought. She remembered him. His mother had been a sniper under Thiago Wesick in St Georges. His father had taken his own life shortly afterwards, when the hunger became too much. There were a thousand little boys like Iuitl in the Kingdom in Exile.
If the Crown got their way, there would be a thousand times thousand.
"It's okay," she said, and heard the lie weigh heavy in her own words.
As though to prove her a liar, the doors of the library shuddered under the weight of some explosion, and with two tiny cracks, bullets spiralled in through the glass and embedded themselves into the wood of the shelf beside the reception desk. From under the desk, Saran could feel Iuitl's bones shuddering as though trying to shake themselves free of his skin.
But he stayed quiet. Was it because he trusted Saran to keep him safe? She could have cried. She didn't know how to keep anyone safe. They were going to die here.
"It's okay," she said, and this time he echoed it back to her, very softly, as though he was afraid that they would be heard. It's okay.
And maybe that was the secret, maybe that was all the universe had been waiting for to slot the final pieces into place, for he was just finished whispering it in that thin, reedy voice of his (it's okay) when the door at the back of the library slammed open with an urgency – Saran jumped, nearly smacked her head off the top of the desk, and clutched Iuitl close as though she could possibly hope to protect him as she craned her neck to try and see which particular rebel had entered, if they ought to say a prayer of thanks or a prayer for mercy.
Neither. The word escaped her in a single breath: "Wick."
For that was, indeed, the man who had entered the building. He crossed the floor, quickly, and knelt down beside her. "Saran." He did not bother with the title of lady. He rarely did any more. There was too much urgency in his voice. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, slightly dazedly. He had blood on his shirt, and on his face. She thought he might have broken his nose; it didn't look right, looked swollen at the bridge, just as there was a swelling on his cheekbone. He had blood on his hands as well. Saran wasn't sure if it was his. And yet his voice was steady and his warm brown gaze was still and kind. Just as it always was.
"And Iuitl?"
"It's okay." His voice was small.
"Good." Wick gave her a small smile, one which seemed strained and uncertain and real compared to the broader, brighter expression he offered to the little boy. "You two picked a great hiding spot. Well done. You're holding up fantastically, Iuitl."
The little boy nodded. Without thinking, Saran reached out and put a hand on Wick's. "What's going on?"
"Nothing good." He turned his hand over so that his palm faced up; rather than intertwining fingers, he and Saran gripped each other's wrists, a gesture which had struck Saran as slightly less traitorous than the alternative the first time that they had exchanged it but which struck her as slightly more criminal each and every time. "Don't worry, okay? I'm going to get you out of here. We'll make it out."
"To where?"
Wick hesitated. Saran saw his gaze flicker down to his watch, and a darker expression flit across his face. "Somewhere safer," he said, and that told Saran that he wasn't entirely sure either.
Somewhere safer. What did that mean for the fate of the others? Where were Yue, Demetri, the rest of the Selected? Were they safe?
Would Saran be?
She nodded hesitantly. With some hesitation of his own, Wick slid in to sit beside her, his body positioned between her and Iuitl, and the doors of the library. She leaned back against one of his arms, just the sensation of some other person, some stronger person, some protector, serving as a decent tonic for the speed at which her heart had been going for the past hour or so. She shut her eyes, and struggled to control her breathing. Wick did not seem inclined to make a run for it right now. She wondered how long they would stay here. Had he meant what he had said about a good hiding place?
Were they just going to wait for the coast to be clear?
As it turned out, that was very much what they were going to do, for the minutes slipped by, and then the hours slipped by, and soon Saran wasn't quite sure how long they had been hiding.
And yet, the coast did not grow clear. Even once the screams had stopped and the chaos had stilled, there was the occasional sudden burst of gunfire, every so often a shout or a yell that suggested someone had been found or someone had tried to run. And each time, Wick grimaced and looked at Saran, and then looked away, as though he could not bear to meet her gaze for too long.
And then, just as the shadows in the library were beginning to grow long and wind themselves around Saran's limbs, there was a very abrupt crash at the front of the building that suggested the doors had been knocked in by a vehicle or a battering ram. Saran could not have jumped this time, even if she had wanted to, so tight Wick's grip upon her wrist.
"Oh, good."
At the sound of the familiar voice, Saran and Wick exchanged a look and he loosened his hold so that she could move forward slowly and stand, for regardless of whether these new arrivals meant well, it was very doubtful that Saran and Wick and Iuitl would make it very far.
"Good?" Saran echoed.
"Good." Devery Atiqtalaaq's silhouette was a solid shape, black and strong, against the rising red light filling the square behind her. Behind her ranged a number of soldiers, tall and strong men and women looking as though they had crawled through hell just to reach the doors of the village library – their faces torn, their skins bruised, their flesh swollen and bruised. In this light, their faces looked like slabs of minced meat. And yet, at the head of them all, Devery's hair was still in two perfect braids, with only a few hairs wisping free to frame a grim face, whose severity was alleviated only slightly when her eyes fell upon the motley trio of survivors and she cracked a slight, needle-like smile. "Lady Saran. There you are."
"Here I am."
"We had feared the worst." Devery gestured to her soldiers to fall back, as though she had only just realised how threatening they might appear in the encroaching gloom of the night. "Thank god we found you."
Saran's mouth was still dry. She was struggling to put words together. "You were looking for me?"
"Of course." Devery Atiqtalaaq shrugged, and the words that followed sounded very pointed indeed. "The north leaves no man behind."
Fifteen minutes had passed. Wick was not back. It was time to go.
Liara could see this fact etched onto Demetri's face. It was time to go. He seemed to set his shoulders, as though facing headfirst into a bracing wind, at this realisation. He turned to nod at Uzohola, and the woman seemed to have to catch her breath before she returned the gesture and went up, into the plane and into the cockpit.
It was time to go.
Liz's face was pale as the plane started up with a roar and began to shudder its way into motion. "Who's flying this thing?"
"Are we sure they're friendly?" Eden's expression was as dark as Liara had ever seen it.
Liara did not have an answer for that. She wasn't sure how they could be all that sure about anything anymore. She could only stare at Demetri's back as he watched the mountains, and the burning town below, and waited, waited for people who were not coming back.
She ached to go to him, to tell him that everything was going to be alright and the others were going to make it back. But more than that, so much more than that, she wanted to be right.
"Time to go," Demetri murmured, and turned.
Turned, just as Liara shouted, "Täj!"
And it was Täj, stumbling not through the tiny grate which marked the hidden entrance to the secret Layeni tunnels, but through the thicket of trees at the far edge of the clearing. And if Atiena looked like a living corpse, Täj looked like one that wasn't even living anymore – just conveyed about as though on the end of some far away master's string.
His face was very pale, even paler than usual, with a thin trickle of blood running from his temple, like that was all that was left. He went to take a step up into the plane, and stumbled, and it was only Demetri surging to catch his old friend by torso that prevented him from collapsing there and then.
As though on cue, the engine beneath them roared with a deep, profound sound and Liz was nearly knocked off her feet as the plane was forced into a fast, desperate acceleration along what little runway the clearing allowed. The aft door was still open, as Demetri struggled to carry Täj back from the edge, and for a split second Liara could only stare at the ground beneath them as it was abruptly yanked away from them and the whole craft lurched upwards, into the air, and banked right almost immediately to avoid clipping the edge of the nearest mountain cliff.
Täj slid down against the wall to sit, staring forward slightly dazedly. Demetri grasped his friend's face in his hands, as though checking for a head injury, but even Liara could tell that the pale man was likely concussed. His pale eyes could not even focus without difficulty. They fixed on Liara now, very briefly, as the pale man said, "Tayna," and for a split second Liara's heart constricted, thinking he was far enough gone to mistake the two of them. The moment passed, and then he said, "did you see where…"
Liara could only shake her head.
She did not mean no, I did not see. She meant no, I cannot possibly tell you. No, I cannot find those words. No, this is not my role.
"Demetri."
Demetri made no sign of having heard his friend, but Täj persisted nonetheless. It struck Liara's hard like a missile, settling deep amongst her arteries, to realise how close his words came to a plea. And he was trying to get to his feet, trying to find his feet, trying to ground himself despite the throw-and-rattle of the flight.
"Demetri, we have to go back. We have to go get her."
The plane lurched again, with a rattle that suggested its shell might come apart at the seams if the mood struck them. Yue's knuckles had gone white, so tightly had she wrapped her grip around the lone metal bar attached to the ground, and so intently was she trying to stop her teeth from chattering with the violent spasming of the craft. Atiena had scrambled for the back door to try and find a way to shut it, as the rivers below shrunk into tiny silver threads and the smoke below became nothing more than a mere wisp of grey on the horizon.
"If she's dead, she's dead." Liara couldn't believe her Demetri could sound so cold. "If she's alive... Täj. As long as she's breathing, she'll find her way out. You know what she's like."
Liara thought: Did he know he was lying? Was he lying? Did he care?
Liara hadn't realise Täj could display such open emotion on his face, his jaw clenched, a naked desperation in his eyes. In their previous conversations, she had mistaken his demeanour for emotional honesty, but she could see now that even then, he had been holding something back. "Ga..."
"You got the shit kicked out of you, Täj." Demetri set a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Listen to me. We didn't go back for the General. We didn't go back for Herry. We've never gone back. The Kingdom is larger than one soldier. You know that I love Tayna..."
Täj shook off his hand.
"I do," Demetri said, dropping his voice low. "You don't have a monopoly on loving her. If she's alive, she's alive. If she's dead, I'll mourn her as much as you will. But either way, what's done is done."
Täj looked at Demetri and for a split second Liara thought the pale man was about to strike his king, actually hit Demetri in the face.
The moment passed. Täj stepped back. Demetri held out a hand to his old friend and Täj turned his back on him and walked away, down the body of the plane towards the tail.
Demetri watched him go, and then, as though suddenly becoming aware of the eyes of the Selected upon him, turned and walked towards the cockpit. After a single moment, Uzohola emerged and walked to sit beside Eden, looking as though she were about to keel over. And keel over she did, despite the rough turbulence that made Eden's knees nearly bounce into and break her jaw, pressing her head against the metal floor, shutting her eyes and going utterly still.
Liara wasn't sure she could blame her for this reaction, after seeing what her twin brother had done in the town square. And looking down towards the other end of the plane, she wasn't sure she could blame Täj for his, although it unnerved her to see such a transformation come over the pale man, who was usually so self-composed.
She was not sure her company would be appreciated, but she went to him anyway. She did not think he would want her to speak, but as she came closer to him, those pale green eyes moved over her and he said, in that deep, warm voice of his, sounding slightly scratchy and hoarse as though holding back something much more primal: "you saw what happened?"
Liara was not sure why her words emerged so strangled, except that the idea of causing this man more pain was, in that moment, utter anathema to her. And yet, the idea of lying to him was similarly unthinkable. "Yes."
It was still playing out as though painted on her eyelids, if she closed her eyes, but in rough and amateurish brushstrokes, like an impressionist idea of bloodshed.
Täj set his head against the wall. "The one time," he said softly. "The one time she should have run away."
All Liara could think to do was reach out, and take his hand.
And to her surprise, he let her.
That day, the Crown learned of successes and failures alike.
Mordred reclined in the throne that had been his father's, and gestured that Advisor Akiva should advance further into the room. With a hesitant look across the chairs that belonged to the counsellors Mordred had forbidden from attending this meeting, fanned out in a crescent half-moon shape following the curve of the chamber's northern wall, Akiva stepped further into the room. Set moved with him, as though as his shadow.
The Queen Regent usually elected to sit among the counsellors, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mordred's Minister for War and Minister for Intelligence, old men and women with salt and pepper at the temples dressed in neat suits of muted colours. Today, however, she stood to one side of the throne; General Lee stood to the other; neither of them dared move as Mordred spoke.
"Gentlemen." Mordred's voice was languid. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He paused. "I do hope you're not bringing me any bad news."
"Apparently." A vein jumped in Akiva's vein. "Apparently the mole in the palace let slip the plan. The rebels had ready a fuelled plane from the Saharan Federation."
General Lee turned his eyes on the adviser, very slowly, something dawning behind his dark eyes. "What are you saying?"
"The false king has fled east. Abandoned his people and his supposed kingdom for the safety of a foreign court. Alive."
Mordred's voice was hoarse, his pale eyes distant, watching the mosaic on the far wall of the throne room rather than meeting his advisor's gaze. "And the Selected?"
"Mostly alive. Mostly gone."
"Mostly?" Ysabel could not help herself; she moved forward to put a hand on her husband's arm, and turn imploring eyes upon him. Set had to think of what Mordred had said to his mother all those weeks ago, watching the false Demetri's Selection on the television. We've fought for peace,while they have fought for power. That was the only justification that they could cling to, these days. They fought for an end to the fighting. They killed for an end to the killing. They bled for an end to the bleeding.
"Liara Lee is alive." Set's voice was tired. "As are Eden Lahela, Yue Yukimura and Elizabeth Tucker. The others… We are trying to find out."
"Good." Mordred had relaxed his posture only slightly. His voice was slow-dripping venom. "And this mole of theirs?"
Akiva looked to Set for permission to continue, but it was Mordred's uncle who stepped forward to answer the question. "We are doing our utmost, your Majesty. We think we're getting close."
"Fuck getting close," Mordred said narrowly. "Even if there's a spy in our palace, how is that information getting out? I was assured, gentlemen, that such a feat was… beyond human capability."
Set had thought the Selection might warm his blood a little, might give him some human interaction, might keep all that gold from weighing out the humanity in his nephew. The coldness in his voice as he spoke now suggested otherwise.
"It appears," Akiva said narrowly. "That the rebels had… assistance." He set his mouth. "From one Artur Gildas."
"I see." Mordred's voice was cold. Akiva and Set exchanged glances.
"It has therefore been suggested," Ysabel said, somewhat softly. "Given Gildas appears to have declared in favour of the rebellion… that we might reach out to one of their rivals..."
"No." Mordred's voice was cold. "I'll have nothing to do with the Acerbi family or the Pandora organisation. We are the legitimate government of Illeá, and we need not associate ourselves with thieves, and whoremongers, and killers."
Thieves and killers, Set thought ruefully, looking at Akiva, and then at his wife, then at his own reflection in the mirror set above the throne. Yes. They would hate to associate with thieves and killers.
"Very well. Find out about the rest of the Selected. If they're alive, and they're still in Illeá, I want them brought to the castle. I want any rebel you find put in chains. And any of the Inner Circle..."
He sighed. For a split second, Set saw him as he was – just a young man. Barely out of boyhood. Hardly a king.
"Bring me their heads," he said finally. "And get me a meeting with Mansa Inkosi Enhle. I'd like to know why the Federation is interfering in an internal matter. What remains of Layeni?"
Akiva was the only one brave enough to speak. "Bones and ash, your Majesty."
Mordred set his mouth and stood. "Very well. You're dismissed."
Another day, Set thought, another massacre. The first time Mordred had ordered someone's death, he had arrived at dinner the next day with the red eyes and pale face of a man who had been crying. Now, he barely even blinked.
God help them all when this was over, Set thought, watching his nephew cross the throne room, and there was no war to distract him. God help them.
Against his best efforts, once he was alone at the controls of the craft, once he was sure that they were out of the range of any rival attacks, once there was nothing but open ocean beneath them and the smoke of their little kingdom left far behind them, the King of Dust found himself crying.
He was not sure who he was crying for.
The General, the only father he had truly known. Raphael, the only person who had believed that he could actually be a leader and not just look like one. Vardi Tayna, his feral girl, his first friend in the Wastelands. Wick, his most loyal, most unwavering comrade.
And Saran. Nina. Lissa. All those girls, dead or in danger because of him. They were all in danger because of him. They always would be. Because of all of this, all of this fighting, this Kingdom and the dust it left in its wake.
What was really the point?
