He put a hand to his aching temple. “Get out. I don’t believe you. Why would she send you here?”
“I . . . It’s a long story, but now that I’m here, I can help you. She would want me to.”
“Why?”
“Because she still loves you, Zhade.”
“Get out.”
“It’s true.”
“Then why isn’t she here herself?” he snarled.
Meta gave him a patronizing smile. “She can’t be here right now. But she will be. Soon and sooner.”
Zhade couldn’t stand it any longer. Heat coursed through him, hot and fast, and through the Crown, he commanded the angel nearest to Meta to grab her by the neck and hold her aloft.
A small noise escaped her throat as she was lifted off the ground. Her eyes went wide, her fingers scrabbling at the angelic hand round her neck. He felt her fighting back, the implant in her consciousness grappling with him for control of the angel. But Zhade was angry and powerful and had been betrayed and betrayed and betrayed. Meta had built this army for him? Evens, then. He would use it. He commanded the angel to tighten its hold, and it did.
A choking sound came from Meta’s throat and she mouthed the word please, but Zhade didn’t care. Didn’t care that she claimed to be like a sister to him. That she recked where his mam was now. That she’d stood by him for the past moon.
Her kicks grew weaker, and her hands dropped from the angel’s grasp. The light in her eyes dimmed, tears streaking her face.
Something flashed in Zhade’s mind. It was the briefest of moments, but it was the image of Andra, her face drawn in fear, shouting, begging.
Zhade sucked in a breath and released his command on the angel. It dropped Meta on the floor. She sucked in a rasping breath, trembling. Her hand clutched her throat as she coughed, the sound fragile and sharp. Zhade could feel her heart pounding through the stardust, feel the tremor in her limbs.
Shaking, she looked up at him, an expression of hurt on her face. Tsurina’s face.
“Get out,” Zhade commanded.
Meta fled.
TWENTY-NINE
00110010 00111001
Andra and Rashmi met Xana outside of Maret’s cell.
When they arrived, the warrior was waiting for them, one hip cocked, cleaning dirt from her fingernails with her knife.
“Did you skool that from Doon?” Andra asked as she approached.
Xana raised the eyebrow above her modded eye. “She skooled that from me.”
“Evens. Prepped?” Andra asked.
Xana sheathed her knife. “For what?”
Andra hadn’t told her what to expect. Didn’t want to explain it. She only knew Xana was their best bet at getting the answers they needed out of Maret.
“Anything,” she replied, and opened the door to Maret’s cell.
Xana gasped.
Maret sat slumped in the corner, clothes disheveled, hair almost black with sweat and dirt. There were smudges on his cheek, and ugly yellow bruises on his temple. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and there was a cut through his lip. He must have tried to get through the energy field again. Mechy was standing guard, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as though he were mimicking Zhade. Andra shook the thought away.
The force shield crackled. Maret grinned, and his teeth were tinged with blood. “Brought someone else to do your dirty work?”
“Good fraughts,” Xana cursed. “Did you do this to him?”
Andra shook her head. It had been nearly a month of Maret taunting her with information he wasn’t inclined to share. She tried to keep him comfortable, but he refused to bathe, barely ate, and kept throwing himself against the force shield. But it didn’t seem like he was trying to escape. Instead, it seemed like he was . . . content. Like he was exactly where he wanted to be, and the information he teased was nothing more than a ploy to keep him there, in custody. Trapped. Or maybe . . . safe. What had he said to Rashmi?
Not a prison.
Protection.
A kinetic orb shone into the cell, bright as the floodlights at Andra’s high school ’drone races. It painted each hollow, each smudge of dirt, each speck of blood on Maret’s face in sharp relief. She almost felt sorry for him, but then she heard Rashmi let out a small sob behind her.
Andra crossed her arms, stance wide, trying to project strength. “You were right. I wasn’t willing to do what needed to be done. Fortunately, I have friends who are.”
Maret chuckled. “And you’re willing to let them off the leash.”
“I never had them on the leash to begin with.”
“You have us all on the leash, and you don’t even reck it. You existed never a goddess. You existed a devil, come to destroy us.”
Andra tried to put his jumbled words out of her mind, but he knew where to hit her. She’d never wanted to be a goddess, and she’d always been insecure about how she was using her influence. Now she had power. Actual power. The first time she’d tried to use it—really use it—she’d almost brought the palace down. And now something dwelled inside her, clawing to get out.
Destroy, the voice hissed.
“I’m not here to destroy everyone.” She gave Maret an angry smile. “Just you.”
He squinted into the light and then looked back at her, licking his dry lips. “Do you imagine that’s the threat that will get me to tell you my secrets?”
“No. Xana will take care of that later. I just wanted to chat.”
“I brought you some water,” Rashmi said, her voice high and thin.
She stepped forward awkwardly, and Maret watched her every move. She sat the glass of water on the ground, right next to the force shield. Andra commanded the nanos to make a small hole at the bottom of the shield, just large enough for the cup. Rashmi pushed it through and stepped back. Andra closed the hole.
When Maret stood, it was as though he had to unfold himself. Andra had forgotten how tall he was. Even in the desert clothes, he looked formidable. He slowly bent to pick up the water—
and threw the cup as hard as he could at Andra. It hit the energy field, exploding on impact. Pieces flew everywhere, on both sides of the field. One hit Andra’s cheek, and she tried not to flinch. Maret wasn’t as lucky. A shard caught him in the shoulder, and he stumbled back against the wall, then tumbled to a heap on the floor.
His groan devolved into a breathy laugh as he leaned his head back against the wall.
Xana rolled her organic eye. “You’re wasting your time. Let’s wait til he’s had some time to reflect. He’ll wish he hadn’t wasted the water then.”
Andra swallowed. She didn’t have time, and she didn’t actually intend for Xana to torture answers out of him, just for him to think she would.
She knelt so she was eye level with Maret. “Tell me about the Crown.”
A grin spread over his face, but instead of being a sneer, it was almost proud. “Finalish. You’re asking the right questions.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Dunno.” Maret shrugged. “My mam gave it to me.”
“She gave it to you?”
Maret stood and sauntered toward the force shield. Andra rose to meet his gaze.
“I told you I recked things. Things bout you, bout the Second. How do you imagine I recked?”
Andra stood silently, waiting. She was afraid to even breathe wrong, or Maret would stop talking.
“My mam recks everything. Remember the Luddites I convoed bout?”
Andra nodded.
“They’re not mereish against the goddesses and High Magic. They’re an ancient society bent on destroying your people.”
“My people?”
“The people you call colonists.”
“They . . . why?”
“The Crown, the Crown,” Rashmi muttered.
Maret’s eyes flashed toward her. “She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
“No,” Andra agreed. “But she wants to be. And she’s tired of people making choices for her.”
Maret’s eyes stayed on Rashmi for a moment too long before returning to Andra. “It goes back to before you went in that glass box. Your people destroyed the planet, killed billions. And the Luddites vowed to get revenge. I come from a long line of people who have been waiting for the goddesses to wake sole so they can kick the shit out of you.”
Andra swallowed. “That’s why your mom married Zhade’s dad? So she would be closer to the goddesses?”
“He was my da too.”
“And then lucky her, the goddesses did wake up. So why didn’t she just kill us outright?”
Maret scoffed. “Oddish enough, it’s difficult to simplish murder people that are worshipped as gods. It required a more subtle approach.”
Andra nodded. “Getting the people to turn on the goddesses and sacrifice them.”
“My mam is many things. She is evil and she is brilliant. She planned everything, except for your disappearance. But when you did disappear, she started weakening the dome so we would need you. She allowed me to banish Zhade so he would find you, bring you back. She wouldn’t be able to kill you soon and sooner, but it was sole a meteor of time before she got the people to turn on you.”
Andra’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother told you all this. All her plans?”
Maret scowled. The light of the kinetic orbs shone on the sweat dripping down his forehead. “My mam told me nothing. But after a while, I began to fight. Near the end, I could get inside her head, see her thoughts.”
Andra frowned. “What are you talking about? Fight what? Get inside her head how?”
Maret shook his head, as though he was disappointed in her. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“The Crown,” he said. “Tsurina controls whoever wears it.”
THIRTY
THE SOVEREIGN
Zhade collapsed onto the floor of the cathedzal. Round him, angels were frozen in displays of mock battle.
The strain was still there, the pain in his temple, but it felt good. Something to distract him from what he’d skooled bout Meta. She had been raised by his mam. This full time, she’d recked his mother was alive, probablish even recked where she was now. And she’d held it hidden from him. She’d turned the angels loose on his people, killing so many. And she expected thanks?
She’d claimed to be like a sister to him, but she wasn’t. She was his enemy.
Zhade commanded the angels to stand down. In a single movement, they all clanked to attention, their eyes blanked to a neutral white light, then darkened as they simultaneousish fell asleep.
There was a slow clap at the cathedzal doors, and Zhade looked up to see Tsurina, Fishy, and Kiv in the open doorway. He’d commanded Fishy to bring the Grande Advisor here. They needed to have a chat. Fishy fell back in line as Tsurina stepped into the cathedzal, a smile on her face. Kiv followed, a scowl on his.
Tsurina’s claps echoed, bouncing off the walls as the last vestiges of light shone through the stained glass onto Zhade. He watched it refract from his Crown and travel cross the red velvet floor as he rolled his neck. His bones cracked. He sighed.
“Rare form,” Tsurina said. “Not even Maret could have sorcered all these angels at once. You’ve full surpassed him. I admit I’m . . . impressed.”
Zhade lowered himself onto one of the steps leading to the cathedzal’s stage. “You shouldn’t be. I’ve always been full bars talented.”
Tsurina shrugged, weaving through the rows of angels and sitting at Zhade’s feet. She spread her skirts round her. “Soze was Maret. But he never cared for his role as guv.”
Kiv grunted. His eyebrows were pulled down over his narrowed eyes, his huge arms over his chest.
Zhade gave him a smile. “Go see Lilibet, Kiv. You’ve earned it.”
Kiv watched him for a moment then shook his head, reluctantish uncrossing his arms. “Neg,” he signed. “I don’t imagine I will.”
Zhade’s smile faltered. “Wasn’t this what you’ve wanted? Go see her. It’s been over a moon.”
Kiv didn’t take his eyes off Zhade. “I imagine it best I stay here.”
Zhade let out an exasperated breath. “If you won’t go see Lilibet then take a walk. Now!”
Kiv gave Zhade one last look, and for a moment, Zhade imagined Kiv wouldn’t back down, that Zhade would have to force him from the room with one of the angels. But finalish Kiv sighed and left.
Zhade turned to Tsurina. “I have some questions.”
“Bout the Crown?” she asked. “I reck it’s full time you skooled the truth.”
Zhade’s thoughts stuttered. He purposed to ask her bout Meta, bout his mam, but was there more he could skool bout the Crown? Could he become even more powerful?
“What truth?” he asked.
Tsurina grinned, running a sharp fingernail over her forearm. “The Crown’s true purpose.”
Zhade held his breath. He would finalish full comp the Crown. And he would be its master. All-powerful and unstoppable.
Tsurina leaned forward. “Its purpose is to protect humanity.”
“Against what?” Zhade whispered.
Tsurina leveled her gaze at him, at he felt that she was seeing inside his soul.
“Against the goddesses.”
THIRTY-ONE
00110011 00110001
Andra stared open-mouthed at Maret.
Tsurina controlled whoever wore the Crown?
Now that she looked over Maret’s actions, it made sense. How he acted differently around Tsurina. The few times he and Andra had been alone, he must have been straining against Tsurina’s grasp. Now, without the Crown, he was a new person, finally free from his mother’s influence.
“I for true have sorries,” Maret said, running a hand through his hair, and he looked more like Zhade than Zhade now did. “I still don’t reck what was me and what was her. It wasn’t like she controlled my actions. I purpose sometimes she did. But it was more oft . . . thoughts and feelings. Memories. Words whispered in my head so many times I believed them.” He met Andra’s stare. “Even now I’m not certz what’s real.”
He was silent for a moment, and Andra felt a softness toward him. He seemed to realize it, and his gaze turned into a sneer.
“Who recks for true? Maybe I’ve been a fraught all along, and all it took was a tiny push from my mother.”
“I don’t believe that,” Andra said.
“Then you’re as much of a fool as my brother.”
Andra ignored him. “Did Tsurina create the Crown? Just so she could control you?”
Maret looked like he was going to say more about her being a fool, but then sighed. “It’s . . . a fam heirloom. Every eldest kiddun in my fam has worn it, for as long as time has memory. Our fam—the Anlochs—are probablish the oldest fam in the Wastes. I’m descended from a group of people sworn to end the goddesses and their sleeping gods. It’s all hazy anow, but I used to have memory why. Some kind of revenge for what your people did to the planet. It was part of the Crown. Every memory of every wearer of the Crown lives inside it. And . . . and the anger too.
“My mam was raised on stories of the gods and the terrible things they did to Earth. How they destroyed it and then disappeared, leaving those they didn’t feel were worthy to clean up their mess. To die. To live in this hellscape. The first of my line swore to get revenge, but recked it would take several lifetimes, so they created the Crown and imbued it with all their memories and angers, so we would never forget what it felt like to be abandoned. My mam inherited it when she was nine.
“Her parents were killed by a pocket. Living in the Wastes, seeya. When the pocket passed, all that was left was the Crown, full untouched. Recking it was her b
irthright, my mam donned it. From that day on, it raised her, whispering the past and anger and hate into her head. Raising her as its own. In a way, she had her mother back. She had all the generations of Anlochs guiding her. Their rage, their revenge, that was all she ever recked. As did I.”
Andra put her hand to her temple, trying to understand. It almost seemed like this ’implant had been given sentience through absorbing the memories that it had been tied to. Programmed by the thoughts and feelings of its wearers, its fear and hate amplified until it consumed each of its hosts. That was what Maret had lived through for four years. That’s what Zhade was living with now.
She felt sick to her stomach. “I can’t imagine having to live like that. With someone else controlling you. I’m sorry, Maret.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Maret snapped. “Because now, you realize, everything you said to Zhade is something Tsurina knows. I recked all along and could have stopped you.”
Andra froze. “Everything? How? If she no longer wears the Crown, how can she see inside his head?”
A haunted smile flashed across Maret’s face. He pointed to the spot the Crown had been. “It never disappears. Not completish. Even if it’s removed, it leaves something behind. Some magic—we call it the imprint—is imbedded into you, like a shard remaining. It gives you control of the wearer, lets you enforce your will on them. You can put them in a trance and make them do whatever you wish, like a puppeter. Or you can make them do something while they’re aware. They’ll do it, even if they don’t reck why. Most of the time, it’s more subtle. You can whisper words into their heart and make them believe something is true. Or at least believe they believe it.” Maret looked away. “It’s not all power though. The imprint leaves you with the memories, the rage. That. That will never leave you.”
Andra felt herself start to hyperventilate. During the upgrades, she’d learned that ’implants became intrinsically tied to the brain of the human wearing it, adapting to their emotions and thought processes. The Crown seemed to do the same thing, but much more invasively, until it became inseparably part of the wearer.
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