Seven Devils

by Laura Lam

  Clo did as her commander instructed.

  They started moving along the vent and Kyla froze, her face contorting in a grimace as she glanced down at the ballroom. They’d missed some of the ceremony. Had the rulers signed the treaty? Clo couldn’t tell. Damocles leaned over to Eris and whispered in her ear. Kyla reached in her bag. Clo understood and grabbed two smoke orbs.

  Wordlessly, they pulled out the pins and tossed the orbs through the vents. The smoke released and obscured the revelers below. Clo prayed that Nyx and Cato managed to grab Eris in the confusion.

  This was their only chance.

  55.

  NYX

  Present day

  Battles were easier than this. There was a cacophonous symphony to war; everyone had a place, movements were carefully coordinated and planned and executed. Nyx was used to exhausting her body, to punishing it with pain. She was very good at killing.

  She did not like espionage, or playing a part, or pretending to be of any station above the one she had been designated. The robes she wore were so soft that she felt naked. The filters up her nose and down her throat itched something awful. The soft, musical accents of upper-class Tholosians and Evoli chafed her ears.

  As they moved through the gardens and deposited the spharias amid the vast grounds, Nyx and Cato pretended to gawk like tourists. In truth, Nyx was counting how many Evoli and Tholosians were inside the perimeter of the spharias’ quarantine—people who would die if Damocles loosed the plague. The revelers beyond the palace grounds would be spared. That was all they could do.

  Nyx and Cato headed back to the palace, and the scan checked them through to the main ballroom.

  Beside her, Cato let out a breath. “Now what?”

  Nyx wound her way through the crowd, taking care to appear casual rather than purposeful. “We wait for Sher and the distraction,” she said through her teeth.

  Beside her, Cato’s movements were as stiff and awkward as one of those mech androids on planets without many gerulae.

  “Look natural, you fuckwit.” Nyx put up a hand as if she were rubbing her nose. “Avert your face or cover your mouth when you speak. Evoli are good lip readers. And for god’s sake, try not to feel panicked. All they have to do is touch you and they’ll sense everything.” Nyx scanned the room, eyes darting from person to person. “Plenty of security—”

  An Evoli soldier across the room caught her gaze, then he glanced behind her.

  Someone brushed her shoulder softly—a quick, light touch, as if by accident. But Nyx felt a quick probe of empathic abilities. It was different from Rhea—the courtesan was so subtle that Nyx hadn’t noticed it before Ismara. This was a more blatant nudge. Like a barb. An invasion.

  Nyx couldn’t fake emotions of joy or delight, because she didn’t feel those things. They were foreign to her. So, she tried for contentment instead, what she felt when Ariadne had held her hand earlier.

  The touch disappeared and she heard a muttered apology. Across the room, the soldier still watched her.

  Nyx put a hand up to hide her lips. “Dance with me,” she breathed to Cato.

  “Oh,” he said. “Do I have to?”

  Nyx rolled her eyes. “Shut up and dance.”

  Reluctantly, Cato pulled Nyx closer. It was a Tholosian royal dance, one familiar to Nyx only because she had been forced to perform it during the military’s grand tour after the Battle of the Garnet. The steps between them were uneven, not cohesive at all. More about the performance than the actual movement.

  The music slid through the crowd, mingling with the tinkling of jewels, the scuff of expensive shoes. Half a dozen perfumes blended into an overwhelming scent. It reminded her so much of other balls she’d been to—so many over the years. All of them in celebration of victory, the blood of battle only just recently washed away.

  This one felt like a sign of death to come.

  Cato hid his face in Nyx’s shoulder. “Any sight of the general or Eris?”

  “No.” Nyx kept her voice deliberately low. “If Sher doesn’t manage to intercept him, Damocles will wait for the right moment.”

  “The right moment?”

  “Yes. Remember what Rhea said? The maximum effect.”

  A new song began, some steady tattoo that kept the pace of a heartbeat. An Evoli song; she was certain of it. She remembered hearing such drums on the battlefield in the distant Evoli camps.

  The sound of it made her blood stir—too many memories. It brought her right back to being a soldier, fighting for her ruler, her planet, her empire.

  Stop, she told herself. Not your emperor, not your planet, not your empire. You fight for Ariadne. For Rhea. For the rest of the crew. Even Eris. Even yourself.

  Another Tholosian song began. A strong, strident and deep thrum that wove itself with the beat of the Evoli instruments. Both echoed off the walls, intended to be a song of unity, of a new, harmonious future.

  Nyx fought her memories, her programming, her upbringing. When she looked at Cato, she knew he felt the same. Cato had deeper programming, and he wasn’t as resistant. His eyes were closed, his expression relaxed. Nyx remembered this. In the communal room with her cohort, they played this song and they all closed their eyes in prayer. Some pressed their hands to their hearts.

  “Cato.” She gripped his arm, leaned into him. “Listen to my voice.”

  “I hear you.” His voice was faint.

  Rhea and Ariadne might have deprogrammed him, but the lure was still there. The drug-like comfort of not questioning, not rebelling, of letting everything be decided. So easy.

  The Evoli drums quickened.

  The Tholosian anthem grew louder.

  Cato’s eyes fluttered shut.

  Nyx sank her fingernails into his arm, relieved to see him wince.

  “Eris,” Nyx gritted. “She might need our help. If you can’t handle this, I’m leaving your ass right here.”

  “Eris?” He sounded dazed.

  Before Nyx could respond, the drums and the anthem stopped. The dais at the far end of the room was lit in a blazing light that cast the Evoli Ascendant and the Archon in the different colors of a nebula. Projected stars scattered across their features, a symbol in both empires of hope and peace.

  The Evoli Ascendant and the Tholosian Archon rose to stand next to each other as they addressed the crowd. Her long robes were deceptively simple compared to the Archon in his full military dress. She wore a headdress that was as delicate as lace, in contrast to the heavy crown slanted across his brow. A goddess, a god—both of them able to change the course of the future with this one meeting.

  The room was quiet, rapt.

  “Welcome, All Souls,” the Ascendant said, using the formal address for Evoli citizens. Even with her words artificially projected, she sounded quiet, her voice ringing lovely as a chime.

  “And loyal Tholosians,” the Archon added with a single, stern nod.

  There was a hunched line to his shoulders and a weariness in his voice. Nyx had always heard that when the Archon finally aged, it caught up all at once.

  The Ascendant lifted her chin. “For the last five hundred years, our great empires have been at war. Each victory has been overshadowed by devastating loss, and we agree the cost of this has become too great. It cannot continue.”

  The Archon added his voice to hers: “We acknowledge this newfound accord will not come easily to some. A declaration cannot undo our pasts, but my hope is that it will clear a peaceful path going forward. A future that will be ensured and continued by my son and Heir, General Damocles.”

  The Archon nodded to a door off to the side, and Nyx dug her fingers into Cato’s arm as the general strode forward to join his father on the dais.

  Eris wasn’t with him.

  “Shit,” Nyx muttered.

  Where was she? Had Commander Sher managed to
get her out without their help?

  The treaty was projected toward the dais in a dappling of colors and lettering across the features of both ruling families. It had been translated into both Imperial Tholosian and Evolian, the symbols merging together in a pact that could not be mistaken: from this day forward, the future of their empires would intertwine.

  The Ascendant slid her fingertips across the letters of the treaty, until the ridges of her prints had left their impression across the projection. The Archon added his own in a firm smear of a line. He nodded to his son to do the same.

  Nyx held her breath as she crept forward, dragging Cato behind her. She had to move slowly, as if she were edging closer for a better look.

  Too slow.

  She waited, trying to slow the cadence of her breath, the beat of her heart. She had to be careful. Nyx watched as Damocles strode toward the signing table. The crowd erupted in applause.

  No, something was wrong. Nyx kept her eyes on Damocles as she moved forward, faster. Where was Sher? He had to do something—

  Damocles lifted a hand and the crowd quieted. “Before I sign, I’d like to say a few words. In celebration of this treaty, I’ve come with offerings to reinforce my intent to follow the Archon’s legacy.” Damocles looked at the Archon and bowed at the waist. “And, of course, a gift for my father.” He pointed to the door and beckoned with his fingers. “We have found Princess Discordia, former Heir Apparent.”

  Nyx froze and watched as Eris swept into the room wearing all the finery of royalty. A heavy dress in red and black, and embroidered with the scythes of Tholos. Dark feathers were sewn into her bodice, their iridescence catching the light. Red cabochons set in black metal glimmered at her throat and ears, one jewel fastened to her forehead like a third eye. She wore a curved headdress that was dotted with fire opals.

  Eris also wore her old face, the fine-boned features of the Servant of Death.

  Why wasn’t Eris doing anything? She didn’t even seem distressed or panicked. Had Nyx’s fears been true? Had she betrayed them?

  Nyx mentally reached for her Pathos.

  Silence.

  Her heartbeat echoed in her throat. What were her orders?

  “Why the hell isn’t she doing anything?” Nyx hissed.

  Cato grasped Nyx’s arm. “Look at her eyes. She’s drugged.”

  Even from where Nyx stood, Eris’s pupils were so dilated the irises looked black. Her expression was blank. Like a beautiful doll, and just as easily manipulated. Drugged to the gills. She gripped a box in her hands, as red and dark and intricate as her clothes.

  “She has a votive gift for our Ascendant Oversoul,” Damocles said smoothly. “An offering for our new future.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Nyx said, noticing the box Eris was carrying. “Move. We need to move.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember what Rhea said? Damocles won’t take the fall for this. He’s got Eris holding the godsdamned weapon.”

  56.

  PRINCESS DISCORDIA

  Present day

  Discordia’s vision was a tunnel of stars. It was bright around the edges, as if she were walking into a dream. She heard voices. They sounded like a flurry of birds taking off into the sky—

  One voice was clear.

  Damocles’s voice was a whisper in her ear, a vibration through her bones. It was heat in her bloodstream, straight to her brain. A terse command was lodged there, one she couldn’t hear yet.

  But she was supposed to follow him until then. Focus on his light, on his features. His fingers beckoned her forward.

  A gift. Discordia carried a gift. A box in her hands.

  It was important, she knew. Somewhere in the back of her mind—buried so, so deep—a warning sounded. So small, the buzzing of a pest.

  Damocles called her name, and she batted the warning away.

  The voices went quiet as she moved forward. She looked out at them, at this sea of colors and light and—were they . . . people? Where was she? She couldn’t remember. Her head hurt too much. The pain in her mouth pulsed in time with her heart.

  “Discordia?”

  That voice. She knew that voice.

  Hands gripped her arms. She stared at a man she recognized from deep in her memories.

  “Father,” she tried to say, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a rough croak, a pathetic sound. They’d used nanites to staunch the blood, but Discordia could still taste iron.

  His eyes were as sharp as she remembered, like roughly cut gemstones. “General, if you’ve brought me another pretender . . .” His fingers tightened and Discordia almost cried out. Her skin hurt. Everything hurt.

  “Her DNA is a perfect match,” Damocles said, as if from a great distance. “I wouldn’t sully such an important occasion with false hope.”

  The crowd’s whispers grew to hisses. Questioning shouts rose, hushed by the steady, calm tenor of the Evoli Ascendant. “What a gift to have such a reunion,” she said. “But unexpected and unforeseen in our negotiations. Will your true Heir honor our truce?”

  True Heir. Discordia saw how much this chafed her brother. His jaw tightened. “She’s not in a position to be Heir to anything,” Damocles snapped.

  Father barely appeared to listen. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked Damocles.

  “Drugged and broken by the Novantae,” Damocles said. To any onlooker, his tone would have sounded indifferent; Discordia heard the hint of satisfaction in it. Of victory. “So, now you know why the resistance have made such impressive strikes against the Empire. They had her help.”

  The Archon barely seemed to hear his son. He lifted Discordia’s chin. She knew every line of that face. She had spent so much of her life trying to please him. Hadn’t she? “I thought you were dead. So many came to me—but they weren’t you.”

  His voice—softer than she remembered—came to Discordia as if from the bowels of a ship. Echoing. Distorted. His face was blurred, and she shook her head to focus.

  Give the gift, an inner voice said. No. Her brother’s. He’d given that command back on the ship, and the drugs they’d put in her made it so difficult to resist. It pounded through her head like a klaxon.

  No. No. Something was wrong. She couldn’t remember.

  She shook her head, opened her mouth to speak again.

  “Oh, did I mention?” Damocles couldn’t hide his sense of victory. “Her tongue’s been cut out.”

  A hush went through the room. Her vision was beginning to clear. She met her father’s shocked gaze.

  Do something, she willed herself. But her body wasn’t her own. It waited for a command.

  Her arm still stung from the needle. The drug coursed through her veins. Her body felt like it was floating. The box was heavy, the only thing weighing her to the ground.

  “Discordia?” the Archon asked, gaze searching hers. “Did they break you?”

  “I told you she wasn’t as strong as you believed,” Damocles said. “When I found her, she was giving the Novantae information on how to destroy us. I had to control her myself, and now she can barely resist a command. Watch.” He turned to Discordia. “You have an offering for the Ascendant, don’t you, sister? Give it to them.” He glanced at the Ascendant.

  No. Discordia was shaking her head. Something wasn’t right. What was it? What was it?

  Someone called her by another name, one she’d chosen. Or had she imagined that familiar voice in the crowd?

  The Evoli soldiers stepped forward to accept the gift.

  “Discordia.” Damocles’s voice again, so loud that it pounded through her head. Was that her name? “Open the box. Let them see.” He delighted in ordering her around, as if she were nothing more than a pet.

  Open. Open, open, open. The comma
nd was so loud, she was powerless against it.

  She set the box down on the table between the Archon and the Ascendant, and lifted the lid.

  A gasp went through the crowd.

  The jewels glittered in the light. The necklace, the orb, and the scepter were nestled in the fabric. Each one was beautifully polished, highlighting the reds, blues, and oranges of the stones that gave the fire opals their name. A match to the jewels nestled among the branching antlers of her headdress.

  The guards stepped forward to take the box from her. She watched as they inspected the jewelry, deemed it acceptable, and gave it to the Ascendant.

  The Ascendant murmured kind words in her language and allowed a guard to fasten the necklace. It looked beautiful against her shining, opalescent skin. So much like Rhea’s.

  Rhea.

  Discordia’s mind caught on the name like a pebble in a stream before it washed away again. The two Oversouls—priests to the Ascendant—accepted their gifts of orb and scepter with their thanks and a nod.

  The smile Damocles gave Discordia made her freeze in place.

  Her command was finished. Discordia had served her purpose. The buzzing in her head cleared.

  And Eris remembered.

  She had seen Damocles hide the blaster beneath the velvet lining of the box. He had let her watch as he carefully arranged the jewels on top.

  Eris had delivered the weapon intended to kill the Evoli.

  Stop! She tried to shout the word, but all that came out was an awful noise, more animal than human. She lunged forward to grab the box, but Damocles seized her by the arm.

  Eris struggled against him, her vision clouding. The blood pulsing through her veins burned, but she clawed at Damocles. Her scream was savage.

  “Say it, Father,” Damocles demanded. “Admit that after all your training, your daughter failed you. Admit it. You made a mistake in declaring her your Heir.”

  The Evoli Ascendant watched with unblinking eyes. How much did she and the Oversouls feel? Had Eris’s guard been lowered enough that they could sense her fear? What did they think about sordid family secrets unleashed in the middle of a peace ceremony? Their expressions betrayed nothing.