cafuné (v.) to brush fingers through a loved one's hair.

Kinga was sitting on the doorstep, lacing her boots; Ilja almost tripped over her on his way out the door, keen to make his appointment with the prince. Zoran had delayed him, asking to meet and speak over lunch - there was, it would seem, some matter that could not be discussed in the atelier. Ilja had been grateful to be invited, to be trusted, to be confided in, but then Zoran had casually instructed Ina and Khalore to come along as well and... well. Didn't seem so special, after that. At least now it was unlikely to be about the Tower.

The morning had dawned and the day had settled over the city, a bright cornflower blue sky slipping into place over the spires like a familiar coat. It was going to be a gorgeous day; the cobbles were already warming underfoot. The sunlight on his face was more refreshing than any amount of cold water; he felt human for the first time in many long, long hours.

He rather imagined Kinga could relate. She was having trouble tying her laces; she was having trouble tying knots, like she was trying to use borrowed fingertips for the task. Ilja slowly, gracelessly, lowered himself down to the step beside her, and gestured impatiently for her to turn one boot towards him. She worked on the left; he worked on the right. It felt, he thought, like something friends would do for one another – like something a brother might help with. "I'm sure we both have someplace to be," he said, "let me help."

"Notifying families," she said dryly. "Lucky me."

She was coiled like piano wire. Ilja said, "when did you last sleep?"

"I don't," she said, pleasantly, "need sleep anymore."

Ilja stilled his hands on her laces and cocked an eyebrow warily.

"When I'm tired," she said. "When I'm tired of being Kinga," she said. "When I'm tired of it all," she said. She shrugged. "I just... stop."

Ilja said, "when I say that's the stupidest idea you've come up with, Kaasik, I want you to truly understand the depth and gravity of my feelings and sentiment."

She said, "it's working fine so far, isn't it?"

Was it? There was a black bruise spreading from her hairline, down across the point of her cheekbone, curling around her eyepatch, lifting up the skin in a harsh rash that resembled, in this light, a set of scales. It hadn't been there last week. It hadn't been there when Ghjuvan died. There was a little black band on her wrist, that might have been where Ina had tried to pull on her chains, to compel her into relenting from her pursuit of the stone druj. There were feathers in her hair.

She said, "I've certainly had stupider. Certainly."

"Yes," Ilja said. He pulled the laces tight and bound them in a neat bow, tucking the ends beneath the tongue of her boot. "We saw that yesterday, didn't we?"

She exhaled.

"It was love," she said, "and if she loved him, she'd finish the job."

"Yours is not the only way," he said.

"It is as a xrafstar," she said, "it is as a Warrior."

And she was right, in a way - wasn't she? Ilja had murmured the question to Khalore in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, for surely awake he would not have allowed the words to drip from his lips so insouciantly. Do you think the real Pekka would have ever tried to hurt us? Do you think he would want to exist like this - as a shadow? Kinga was looking at him now like she knew the answer to those questions, like she knew that he knew. He said, softly, "you would make me a murderer twice over today, Kaasik?"

"Thrice," she said, "for me."

"Who...?"

"A Watcher," she said. "In the moment, he was more; afterwards, less. But now -"

"An enemy," he said.

"Or a cousin thereto," she said.

"Which one?"

"Txori."

"There's a few of those running running around. They probably won't miss one." Ilja smiled. "We orphans all look alike, you know."

Kinga stood, and offered him a hand; she hauled him up in a single, effortless movement. He had expected… more. Had he been foolish to expect more? She had looked so lost in that moment, when she had killed the excubitor, when she had proved her dedication to the redemption of the Kur, to the glory of Irij, to the victory – the continued existence – of their homeland. Perhaps it had been unfair to imagine that she would be fragile in the hours that followed; perhaps he had underestimated her. Perhaps she knew, as well as he did, how much was at stake here.

Repent. Atone. Salvation.

"Kinia," Ilja said. "Are you okay?"

They started down the path towards the wright's avenue; she tucked her hands into her jacket, her shoulders hunched slightly, so that her shadow splayed misshapen across the street in front of them. She looked straight ahead as she spoke; her voice was low and even, as though she wanted to avoid being overheard. She was still limping slightly.

"I used to think she was so stupid," she said. "When he was right there in front of her, just - desperate to be loved. Desperate to love. Desperate to be allowed to."

Ilja shook his head slowly, thoughtfully. "Are you talking about…?"

"She was as well, you know. Desperate."

Overhead: birdsong. The day was blossoming open, crystalline and perfect.

"We all are," Ilja said. "After a while. If we admit it to ourselves. But we rarely do."

"She wasted so much time on the man who considered her a monster," she said. "Because it would mean more to prove him wrong - to earn his love despite it - than to accept the man who didn't care, who never cared, about what she was."

She paused. It looked like she was trying not to say something, but couldn't hold it back. The words rushed from her in the same violent burst as an executioner's falling axe.

"I always said I'd avoid that, you know? I always said I'd avoid that trap. I'd realise that there's no escaping what we are." She looked at him. He put a hand on her shoulder, but could not ignore how hollow her voice sounded. She was saying the words, but there were no conclusions to be found here; there was no happy ending. "I'd never convince myself that there was a way out."

Ilja leaned forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "People have always said," he said, "that I don't care about much."

She smiled. She looked younger when she smiled - she looked less tired. She looked more like Kinga Szymańska than Kunegunda Kaasik, and that simple fact was precious in a way that even he did not have words for. "I know, Iliusha."

"As long as you do."

She still had a spot of Rakel's blood on her boot, mixed with ichor. Ilja could not bear to look at it – to be reminded of what they had done to that poor girl, even after she had stopped bleeding. Kinga said, "will you stop doubting me now?"

Coldness still clung to her voice. He had been a fool to think that it would be this easy – that she would forgive, forget, so quickly. That it would not fester in her, to some small degree. But it would heal. It always did.

Of course I came back. I made a promise.

He said, "I never –"

Her voice was soft. "Don't lie to me, Lja."

Ilja bit the inside of his cheek. "It's Nirari and Hämäläinen you need to convince."

"I see."

Silence, for a moment. They were standing on the street like they belonged here; they were here, in a kingdom full of enemies, pretending to be enemies, pretending to be devils. They were good at pretending. Better than most. It had been, in a way, a comfort to watch Kinga take up the knife last night. It had been a reassurance that they had not lost themselves to their own lies. Overhead, two scarlet red cardinals spun in the air and darted towards the sun, shaking off the last vestiges of the last night's storm.

She said, "you and Miss Sherida looked cosy last night."

Ah. That way, danger lay – he could see it coming a mile off, like it was garbed in neon. She must realise the differences between the Ghjuvan situation and this one – and anyway, she was wrong. "Don't start now, darling. Be nice to her. That girl has bigger troubles on her mind."

She was playfully bitter. "As do you."

Ilja glanced over his shoulder to see Eero and Khalore emerge from the atelier in their wake, Khalore pulling on her blue coat, Eero wearing his usual pink jacket. "We all do."

"Then your point is moot. What is one trouble more? And you're not," she added, "a trouble. She'd be lucky to have you. Anyone would."

He could not help a grateful smile at her words. Though, of course, she was wrong. Who was he? A shadow pretending to be a Schovajsa.

The tone had to be lightened; the conversation had darkened to an unbearable degree. He said, with a smile, "I was hoping Khal would stay with her."

"In case…?"

"That poor man needs to heal," Ilja said, "and if Nirari finds her way into his bed, then I fear that he'll get no chance to rest."

Kinga laughed.

"A nasty way to go – he should be pitied."

"My pity is reserved for you alone." She touched his sleeve gently before she began to retreat. "Good luck with the prince, Schovajsa."

"Luck is not with us," Ilja said. That certainty had crystallised when the Wheel had been emburdened upon Nerezza Astaroth. "That much is definite."

"Oh, god." Kinga spread her hands as she backed away. "Then we'll have to rely on… skill, I suppose?"

"Skill," he said, "smarts. Precedence. Each other."

"Don't get sentimental on me now, Ilja."

She gave Khalore a short nod and then hiss – gone, leaving only the faint smell of petrol in the air and a few dark feathers floating gently across the street in her wake. There were other excubitors rising above the city, tiny emerald silhouettes moving across the rooftops and the spires, but few – so few. Not many red-clad figures on the Wall, either. Illéa was slowly rotting; it would crumble, if left unchecked. The Radiance would have to emerge sometime, sometime soon, if it didn't want its world to collapse in on itself.

Khalore said, "she seemed well."

"She's a mess," Ilja said.

"Well, she gets to be." Khalore drew in a breath, and spoke in a rush, like she wanted to get the words out before Eero could catch up to them. Ilja was equal parts flattered and confused that she was confiding, in that confessional tone, in him. "It's kind of unfair, isn't it?"

"Unfair?"

"She gets Pekka back," Khalore said. "But I don't –" She shook her head fiercely. "I don't get Ghju, you know? I should have got him back. He shouldn't be dead. It's not really fair."

"Lore –"

"Azula doesn't get Mielikki back. Kinga doesn't get Jaga or Matthias or –"

Ilja said, "we all got Pekka back."

"Yeah," the Hanged Man said, "but it's not really him."

"Then Ina didn't get anything back either."

Khalore's lip curled in clear disagreement, but there was no time to say anything else; Eero had lengthened his stride and caught up with them briskly enough.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, with a slight smile. "I can keep walking."

"It's fine," Khalore said. "We're headed in the same direction, right?"

They made for a strange trio, in this ragged line. Did all Warriors seem so... dissonant? They didn't. On no world should their fates have been so inextricably bound, and yet - bound they were. Ina would tell you that much.

Perhaps not now. She was angry - that was fair - and joyful - and that was fair as well - and confused - and that was most fair of all.

Had she seen the look on Zoran's face? Had she understood? How could she not have? Ilja's heart hadn't stopped aching, all the morning long, for the expression his old friend had tried, in vain, to conceal.

Eero glanced at Khalore. "What does Suero have lined up for you today, little butcher?"

"If I behave myself, I might," she said, "get to do my first dissection."

A wave of revulsion spread over Ilja, unchecked, incapable of being checked. He shouldn't have reacted like that, he thought. They were druj. They were devils. What did he care about it?

Ah, but Rakel Sjöberg had bled red. For those first long moments, she had bled bright red.

Black, after that.

Eero was watching Ilja now, and Ilja met his gaze levelly. It was a natural reaction to a natural phenomenon, he thought, this disgust twisting and coiling in his belly. Like finding out where your food came from. He was a city boy; he had almost cried, the first time that Commandant had brought them out to Old Kur to kill chickens. Ghjuvan had struggled as well, had made a mess of it – his bird hadn't died with the first twist of the neck, so the boy who would one day be the Star had ended up taking its head off completely. But that had been ignorance; Ilja had been circumspect out of discomfort. They had raised chickens at the orphange; they had collected eggs from them. So he hadn't been able to keep a grip on the little bird's neck, had taken handful of feathers out of its scalp, ended up with talon marks raked deeply down his arms and across his face, until eventually Sauer had to crouch down beside him and demonstrate the technique with an awful, visceral snap.

He still ate chicken, didn't he? It was one of those things, he thought, one of those unfortunate parts of reality. It became easier with time. You got used to it, the longer you lived with it. You might wish it was otherwise, but –

Repent. Atone. Salvation.

Eero seemed satisfied. He said, "off to practice seduction, Schovajsa?"

"No need to practice that which has been perfected, Hämäläinen."

"Remember to keep your head down."

"Have you ever," Ilja said, "known me to get noticed if I don't want to be?"

"They'll be desperate," Eero said, his voice low and reassuring. Ah. He really was unfairly handsome, though tall and blonde and menacing wasn't usually Ilja's type. It was almost distracting. "Low on men. It's the perfect opportunity to get close. Especially with the Devil serving her lady – and with Khalore in the Schools."

Khalore beamed to have been thus included as essential.

Ilja cocked an eyebrow. "Let's not get too optimistic, shall we? Need to leave some room for an unexpected triumph to carry us out of our darkest hour."

"True," Eero said, "it's when we do our best work."

They had come to a crossroads; to the left, the shining emerald facade of the Schools glistened in the warm daylight, rather resembling a mauseoleum draped in hanging vines and ferns rather than an academic institution; to the right, a winding alley that would lead all the way through Kass, pressing up close against the buildings, and give way into the cavernous underground tunnels that tangled every more expansively around the capital.

Straight ahead: the palace.

They parted. Khalore said, "I'll be back late, boss," and Eero said, "I'll wait up for you," and Ilja said, "study hard, Lore," and Khalore said, "remember to smile, Schovajsa, you look prettier when you smile," and Eero said, "stay safe, remember to stay safe, and if you can't stay safe, then remember to give them hell on your way down."

"Schovajsa, was it?"

Silas was shorter than he had expected, and more slender; glimpsing him from afar did not do justice to the strange, fragile air of hollowness which hung about him like a shadow. He could have been a corpse puppeteered about by his sister, Ilja thought, for all the life that flickered in those dark, dead eyes.

"Hide-yourself," the prince of druj continued, amusedly. "An old-fashioned name."

"So I've been told, sir."

"Not a common name either."

"I'm the last of them," Ilja said, softly, imbuing it with real feeling. He did not mention – the first and last. Frida Tenkrát had given this name to him, and to him only. She had crafted it for him, an instruction and a mantra, something to wear close to his heart for all the years that he might drift through the world untethered, without family or friend or cause to hold him to his promises. He had made that promise to her. He had broken it.

He had tethered himself. He had selected his cause. For all those years in the programme, he had refused to hide.

Ah, but he was hiding now. That much was certain. That much was precious. A promise kept, and broken, and kept again.

"My sister has already voted against you." Silas was wearing gloves and a jacket, despite the warmth of the room, despite the fire dancing merrily in the hearth, a sharp contrast to the austere severity of the opulence which otherwise surrounded them. The judder of the flames in the grate seemed unconscionably cheerful, contrasted to the hard-faced men and women staring down from the portraits which lined this particular drawing room, bordering the prince's bedroom. Silas had the same hard face as them, and the air of a man doomed to be eternally cold. "Though you come with the highest praise that Reiko Morozova is capable of offering."

The corner of Ilja's mouth lifted slightly, just slightly. "What was that, sir?"

"Don't deprive me of him."

Ilja managed to hide his surprise; he had been working with the lieutenant as a relatively small band, one of three as often as one of thirty, but he had not been certain that she had truly taken any notice of him. He had been something to needle, someone to bully, an easy target in a suffocating environment of hierarchy where she could not lash out in any other direction but down. But his loss would be a… deprivation?

Silas reclined against desk. "I believe the term "useful idiot" was used."

Yes. That would explain it.

"Well, then," Ilja said, "I ought not take up much more of your time. If the decision has been made."

It was exactly the right set of words to use – he could perceive it clearly in the prince's eyes, that tiny flicker of life in sharklike black. His lip curled in disdain, and it was such a Khalore-like expression that Ilja could not help but soften slightly, ever so slightly. He was not much older than them – not much older than Pekka, than Eero, and no older than Jaga had been, certainly.

"The decision," Silas said, "is mine alone."

"I understand, sir."

He paused. In that pause, which yawned wide, Ilja cast his gaze about casually, almost imperceptibly, not sure what he was looking for, only looking, idly looking. The room was a mess of potted plants, and pieces of parchment scrawled upon in a sloping, elegant hand, and books piled everywhere, and half-started half-finished wooden projects lying here and there. It was a world entire, Ilja thought. It was a universe folded in on itself for someone forbidden to go elsewhere.

And under his boot, discarded, crushed – the little velvet bag Belle had worn at her waist during the ball, into which she had slipped Ghjuvan's teeth, into which she had concealed the Star of Kur.

For a split second, his heart leapt, but it was empty.

That made his heart sink, instead, which was not entirely preferable.

"And Txori has good things to say about you as well."

Txori? For a split second, his conversation with Kinga flashed across his mind – the Watcher, the murder, the whispered warning. We orphans all look alike, you know. But Silas had continued on speaking, seemingly heedless of the turmoil which was roiling, barely checked, beneath Ilja's skin. It was not often that the Chariot found himself knocked off balance – this place did awful things to him, to his sense of equilibrium. But he could hide that well, as he hid all else. Schovajsa. Hide-yourself.

Silas said, "she says you're one of the nicest fellows in the whole place." He smiled, slightly. "Myself included, I believe."

"That's very kind of her."

"Akanksha is a keen judge of character." Silas paused. One of his hands was resting on the book that he had been reading when Ilja had entered the room; it was a leather-bound tome, embossed with dark silver script. A fiction novel, perhaps, or an Illéan historical account, which was rather the same thing in Ilja's experience. "I believe she put a word in for your neighbour as well? The Hämäläinen girl?"

"Azula." Ilja nodded. He adjusted his weight; he lifted his boot off the little velvet pouch. Certainly, it was Belle's. Had she been here? Was she okay?

Was the curse?

"Do you know each other well?"

"Not so well." Lying was a language in which he was fluent, along with all of its dialects. He managed to hide the scrutiny to which he was subjecting the prince as he spoke, clearly cleaving a gorge between himself and the little Devil. "But after the fall of Mont – well, Kolesnitsagrad was a big town that felt small." He paused in a place that felt natural, balancing the rhythm on his tongue. "In the refugee camp, we all tried to look out for one another as best we could." He smiled wanly, a practiced expression. "Her sister asked me to ask."

Silas seemed satisfied with this answer, although perhaps also a little bored with how provincial it all seemed. He had no neighbours, dwelling as he did in the heart of the palace which was, in turn, in the heart of Ganzir. Did he have friends? How could he? He was the king of druj, the king of walls, the king of devilry and the king of nothing at all. What friends could he boast of? "I see. She's proven a good worker. Her mistress is very pleased with her."

"They made us tough in the oblast," Ilja said, "that's for sure."

Silas was about to say something when something seemed to seize up in his chest; he turned aside, and coughed, coughed hard, and was almost bent double by the tremor that racked his body with the third cough, like he was trying to rid himself of vital organs, like there was something deep within him setting roots, searching for a way out.

Ilja stepped forward – ah, but what really could he do? – but was waved away with a dismissive hand and a cold impatient look, thrown his way, as though resentful of his mere presence – at the idea that any might witness him in a state of such vulnerability.

"It is the smoke," Silas said. "This damn debris."

"Yes, sir."

"When can you start, Schovajsa?"

Ilja felt something strange and heavy settle over his shoulders – the dull reality of danger, perhaps. He was in the lion's den now. "As soon as Reiko releases me from her unit, sir."

"Tomorrow morning, then." The prince lowered himself onto a nearby chaise longue, and managed to make it look partway like a choice. Ilja knew better – not when his legs shook like that, not when his fingers quivered, not when he struggled to catch his breath thus. "It is not a complicated set of duties."

There again, that thin-lipped, cruel smile.

"I rarely venture far."