Andra had never felt comfortable with the Crown, but it was only part of the problem. The other part was the neural tech it left behind. It budded the wearer with an ’implant that was networked to the Crown.
“What’s Tsurina’s plan? What does she want?”
Maret lifted his eyebrows. “You purpose what does the Crown want. It wants what it’s always wanted. To destroy the gods, to punish them, to burn everything, til there’s nothing left but ash.”
* * *
Andra cursed herself as she ran through the Vaults’ air’lock and into the tunnels below the palace. She’d removed the Crown from Maret herself. She’d watched and done nothing as Zhade had put it on his own head. At any point during the last few months, she could have removed it from his temple.
But she’d ignored the nagging sense that something was wrong, chalked it up to her humanity, her sense of betrayal at how Zhade had come by the Crown. She’d thrown all her focus at the ’implant upgrades, and now Zhade and probably everyone else would pay for it.
“Wait, Andra,” a voice said behind her, and she turned to find Mechy following.
“You’re supposed to be watching Maret,” Andra snapped, barely pausing before continuing her march to the palace’s secret entrance. Kinetic orbs flashed on as she passed them. Her feet made muted thuds on the eco’tile floor.
“The Xana human is watching him,” Mechy argued, catching up with her with his long mechanical strides. “And the cell will hold. I built it myself, and I am good at building things.”
“Go back,” Andra ordered.
“No.”
Andra paused, turning toward Mechy. He watched her with unblinking eyes.
“You can’t . . . you can’t deny an order.”
Mechy tilted his head. “As it turns out, I can, because I’m refusing to return to the cell to watch the boy-king. I am instead choosing to follow you into peril. Because you are my friend.”
“You’re choosing to,” Andra echoed.
Mechy nodded. “Because you are my friend.”
“Decide your fate,” Andra whispered.
Mechy put his hand on Andra’s shoulder. “That is exactly what I’m trying to do.”
* * *
The ride up the lift to the First’s suites seemed to take forever. Mechy stood patiently beside her, but Andra paced the platform as it ascended, thinking of all the problems she could encounter as she attempted to remove the Crown from Zhade.
First, Tsurina knew everything Zhade knew, which included Andra’s continued existence. Second, even if Andra could somehow confront Zhade alone, Tsurina still had access to Zhade’s thoughts and could control his actions. Andra felt sick to her stomach. Had Tsurina watched them when they were together? Or worse, had that even been Zhade at all? Or had it been some twisted plan to get Andra to spill her secrets?
Ever since Andra had met Zhade, she’d never really known him. He was either pretending to be someone else, or someone else was pretending to be him.
The lift began to slow as it reached the top.
“The palace foundation is becoming increasingly unstable,” Mechy said. “We may not be able to return this way.”
Andra shrugged. They would worry about that later.
The lift door opened and Mechy pulled himself into the small bathroom above, then bent and helped Andra climb out. In the distance, bells were ringing. She paused and counted. Fifteen. Not great. It was around dinnertime—as Eerensedian days were broken into twenty bells, instead of twenty-four hours—so there would be servants going to and fro around the castle, bringing dinner to advisors and diplomats. But at least Zhade should be in the guv’s suite alone and—
Andra turned the corner into the First’s bedroom, and there, waiting for her, was a member of the guv’s guard.
“Well, shit.”
Tsabin, Andra remembered. A slim but muscled man with a shaved head and beady eyes. He was fast. And mean.
“Tsurina said you’d come eventualish,” he hissed, his voice gravelly and rough.
Mechy darted forward, massive fist raised, but Tsabin was ready for him. He twirled a spear around his head and brought it up to block Mechy’s blow. His tan angular face was carved into a snarl, and his muscles bulged beneath his sand-colored shirt.
He swung the spear in Mechy’s direction, but the ’bot ducked, grabbing an overturned chair and breaking off the leg. He fought dexterously for a mech’bot. It seemed Mechy had been upgrading his own software. He was too bulky to fight smoothly, to move quickly, but he’d learned to use his strength as, well, a strength.
Andra let her mental shields drop, feeling for any tech in the room to interface with, but Zhade had done too good a job emptying the room. All that was within reach was Mechy and a smattering of nanos. She called to them and sent them toward Tsabin, but there were too few and he was too quick.
Mechy hit Tsabin across the face with the table leg, his full strength behind the blow. Tsabin went flying across the room, but managed to tuck into a roll and land on his toes and knees and forefingers. A line of blood decorated his cheek. He wiped it off and smiled.
“Run, Andra!” Mechy said. “Get to the arrogant boy. I’ll distract him.”
Tsabin somersaulted to grab his spear, and with a flying leap, brought it down. Mechy barely had time to catch it between his metal palms.
He was right. She had to get to Zhade, remove the Crown. Mechy could handle himself, and Andra was no good in a fight.
She ran for the door, darting over what remained of the fallen chair, tripping forward, hand reaching for the door handle.
“Go, Andra, go—”
There was a sickening crunch, and Mechy’s voice cut off. Andra whipped around to find him on his knees, sword in his chest.
“No!” Andra gasped, just as Tsabin jerked his sword free, taking Mechy’s central processing unit with it.
The ’bot’s eyes went completely blank and he toppled, hitting the ground with a deafening crash. His smoking processor was stuck to the tip of Tsabin’s sword.
“Mechy!” Andra sobbed, as his nanos were released into the air.
There was no coming back from that. Not for Mechy. Andra could repair the damage to the processor, even reconstruct the casing and body. But it would no longer be Mechy. The ’bot who had become Andra’s helper and confidant and friend was gone.
Andra stood, rage coursing through her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Her lungs filled and her consciousness expanded. She gathered all the nanos in the room, including Mechy’s. Calling them, converting them to her own. She saw through them, felt through them, sensed through them. She grew to fill the space around her, breathing in all the fear and anger and grief that had followed her through her time in Eerensed. She breathed out, and as Tsabin stood, preparing to charge, Andra sent the nanos hurtling in his direction, sent them seeping through his pores, pouring into his bloodstream, filling up his lungs, clenching his throat.
He fell to his knees, grasping his neck. Noises that weren’t quite words, sounds that weren’t quite please passed through his lips as they turned blue and the veins in his forehead started to bulge.
Yes, the voice inside her said. Yes, destroy.
Yes, Andra agreed, ice filling her veins. I will. I will destroy. First him and then everyone. He deserves it. They all deserve it.
She watched in passive glee as Tsabin clawed at his throat, reveling in his cries for help. This was what she was created for. This was what was right. Not saving humanity. Disposing of them.
She was basking in Tsabin’s last desperate breaths when she felt a burst of blinding pain cut through her chest.
She looked down. A sword pierced her ribcage. She had one moment of horror, realization of what she’d done, of what had just been done to her, and then there was nothing, not even darkness.
&nbs
p; THIRTY-TWO
THE SCOURGE
“The goddesses?” Zhade asked. “Why would humanity need protecting from the goddesses?”
Tsurina watched him from her reclined spot on the cathedzal floor, her red dress pooling out round her like spilled blood. Zhade felt a prickle at the back of his mind.
“Because of their magic,” Tsurina said. “Since its creation, magic has done nothing but hurt humanity. It’s divided us and subjugated us. And the sole march to save us from ourselves is to harness it.”
Zhade nodded. It was true. Magic had destroyed humans. Their reliance on it—like the gods’ dome—to protect themselves from other magic—like the pockets. How much pain magic caused. It was a necessary evil, but had to be controlled. And who better to control it than Zhade.
He sat forward on the cathedzal steps, the magic of the gods’ dome conduits flashing behind him. “Soze. Mereish like the rogue angels. We seek out the magic that has turned evil and use it for our purposes. Left to the people, these angels would continue murdering innocents, but in our hands . . .”
A smile spread across Tsurina’s face. “In our hands, they can be used to protect Eerensed.”
Zhade couldn’t help but smile back. It was all starting to make sense. All of the things he’d worked so hard against, all of the evil he’d seen in Maret and Tsurina, it was mereish them making the hard decisions. Deciding not their own fates, but the fates of all of Eerensed. All of humanity. Letting go of their selfish desires to have a destiny of their own, to make certz everyone else had one. He could do that. He could give up his wants, sacrifice them for the power to hold his people safe.
“I full comp now.”
“I’m glad,” Tsurina said. “But there’s one more thing you must comp. It’s bout your mother.”
For a tick, fear and shame and guilt and panic washed over Zhade. This was wrong. This was all wrong. His mam hadn’t wanted this.
But then an icy calm washed over him. His mam, who had never for true loved him. He could see that now. She’d left him time and again, let him believe she died and left him to wander the Wastes. Raised some other kiddun instead of him. She was still alive, but he no longer cared to see her.
“What bout her?” Zhade asked.
“She is our greatest enemy,” Tsurina said, and Zhade recked it to be true. “And she has waited out in the desert, banished by her own people. But it seems they are prepping for her to return. We must be prepped ourselves. It will be soon and sooner.”
Firm, it would be soon and sooner. Meta had said so. His mam was coming back, and he would be prepped. He would ask Meta. Meta would tell him. He would pretend he had brotherish affection for her full long for her to spill her secrets.
“Andra is our enemy too,” Tsurina said slowish.
Zhade blinked, confusion settling over him. Was Andra his enemy?
She lied to you, a voice whispered. She never loved you.
He shook his head, two warring emotions rising up inside him. He loved her. He hated her.
Neg. He could never hate her.
The door to the cathedzal flew open.
“Ah.” Tsurina smiled. “There she is now.”
The guv’s guard stormed in, Tsabin leading them, dragging a body. His fellow guards followed, fanning out round him. The sole one missing was Gryfud.
Tsurina gestured at the guards. “They were full time mine, seeya. Even when you imagined they were yours. The guards will always be mine. As will you.”
Zhade nodded. For certz. He would always be hers.
“Look who I found,” Tsabin spat. He dragged the body forward, leaving a track of blood across the carpet, and dumped it at Zhade’s feet.
Zhade’s knees buckled. His heart was torn from his torso.
Andra.
Oh sands, oh sands.
His precious Andra. Kind, bril, funny, charred, perfect Andra.
“Neg,” Zhade croaked. “Neg!” And he fell to his knees, crawling, dragging himself toward her.
There was a hole in her chest, blood pouring out of her. How could she lose so much blood? How much blood was in her?
“Neg, Andra, wake up!” His voice was shredded, and he realized he was screaming. He gathered her into his arms, calling her name. Her body hung limpish, her head lolling from side to side, her eyes open and unseeing. “Wake up!”
He tore off his cape and started packing the wound, soaking up the blood, pressing down, but the blood didn’t stop.
“Andra!” he cried.
“She’s dead,” Tsabin sneered. “Ranzh saved me from the devil by running her through with a sword. No one could survive that.”
Tears streamed down Zhade’s face. It was impossible. Andra was a constant. She had been for centuries. Her body lying frozen as the world kept going and changing, as people lived and died. She continued. She had to continue. The world couldn’t exist without her.
Zhade couldn’t exist without her.
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the graftling wand. The one he’d changed his face with and transformed Meta with. The one that had hurt Andra out in the desert.
But they had both changed—Andra and the wand. Maybe, just maybe, it could bring her back.
He scanned the wound, casting the spell for healing. He waited for the following beep, then let the wand spread its translucent magic over her.
Tsurina was talking, her voice muffled in his head. “Charling, this is for the best. Your care for her was a distraction. Soon and now you can focus on being the guv you want to be.”
Care for her? That happened a fraction of it. He would do anything for her. He would cross deserts and fight kingdoms and give up everything for her. Let Eerensed die. Let it sink into sand. He would die for her.
The glittering magic covered the wound, as it had with Zhade’s sun spots in the desert. It fit itself to form to the shape her body should have been, without the gaping hole over her heart, torn through the wishmark on her collarbone.
Nothing was happening.
Nothing.
Her blood was gushing slower and slower. Her skin was turning waxy, her lips blue. The magic mesh curled in on itself and absorbed back into the wand. Andra lay still.
“No meteor,” Tsabin said. “She’s dead now.” He nudged her with a blood-soaked boot.
“Don’t you touch her!” Zhade growled. He would kill him. Then Ranzh. Then all the guards. He stood, Andra’s blood dripping down his hands, and brought all the angels in the room to life.
There was the smallest hesitation, the tiniest question in his mind. A moment when he wasn’t certz if Andra was the promised of his life or the enemy. A flash of Tsurina’s disapproval.
But then rage and grief took over.
The angels’ eyes grew red, and Zhade reveled in their bloodlust, inserting his will into each of them. Zhade and the magic. Zhade and the angels. Zhade and the rage.
Good, he thought, and let them loose.
Every angel in the room surged forward as Zhade dragged Andra’s body behind the throne, then stood as a shield between her and the carnage afront of him. The guards were brave, but no match for Zhade’s rogue angels. Swords clashed. Shields splintered. And one by one the guards fell into pools of their own blood. Tsabin. Ranzh. Ahloma. Dzon.
Zhade relished in each of their deaths. They’d betrayed him. Neg, how could they betray him if they were never loyal to him? It had always been Tsurina who held their allegiance.
Soon and sooner, Tsurina was the sole one left standing. A smile quirked against Zhade’s lips. Now, he would kill her too.
He blinked.
Neg.
Neg. He couldn’t kill her.
She had skooled him the Crown, given him purpose.
But she’d ordered the guards to kill Andra. For certz, he could kill her.
He saw
a flash of something in his mind. A memory. Not his. He was crying, pleading, begging. Tsurina was sneering above him and slapped him cross the face.
Zhade came back to himself, back to the present, and called to the angels, sending them to circle Tsurina, spears drawn. He would have Fishy be the one to do it. It would stab and stab til there was nothing left but blood and gore. He relished the fear on Tsurina’s face as she trembled and stumbled back.
Then the cathedzal doors rattled.
They stopped, and Zhade was certz he had imagined it. But neg. They did it again. Someone was trying to get in. Zhade and his angels froze, and Tsurina turned mereish as the doors burst open and a pocket entered the room.
Tsurina dove out of the way. The pocket danced and swirled, consuming everything in its path, grabbing an angel arm here, a leg there. Devouring some of the dead guards. Swarming straight toward Zhade.
He stumbled back, but the pocket didn’t pursue him.
Instead.
Instead,
it landed on Andra
(Andra’s body)
and consumed her.
“Neg!” Zhade cried, but something or someone held him back.
The darkness twitched and jolted over the spot Andra’s body had been, taking longer to devour her than it did the others. Taking its time to feast.
Zhade felt the horror from a distance, realized he had been feeling it for quite some time. Guilt and grief threatened to overwhelm him. What had he done?
He’d murdered a dozen people in the blink of an eye. Andra wouldn’t have wanted this.
She was gone.
She was gone.
She was gone.
The pocket dispersed, seeming to disappear into nothing. And there, lying on the cathedzal floor—
—was Andra.
Whole and full well: her injury healed, the ragged hole in her chest now replaced with clear unmarked skin, wreathed in the bloody rags of what remained of her dress.
She sucked in a breath as her body lifted into the air, her back arched, limbs stiff. Slowish, she raised her head, til she was standing straightish, hovering several feet from the ground.
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