The Rising Gold

by Ava Jae

  “So this thing flies?” Mal peers out the window of the hovercraft skeptically, pushing his darkening glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Like a bird? Does it have flapping wings or something?”

  “It has wings, but they don’t flap,” Deimos says. “It works more like the beds and tables. They float, shae? It’s similar technology but much, much stronger.”

  “Hm.” Mal flops back in his seat. “At least the chairs are comfy.”

  He’s not wrong. I don’t know if all hovercraft are like this, but this one is the definition of luxury. The seats are large and so cushioned it’s how I’d imagine sitting on a cloud would be like. The windows are large and so clear it almost looks like there are missing sections of wall. And between each group of four chairs—two on each side, facing each other—is a floating circular table-like surface. Then there are the glasses in the hidden pockets on each chair’s arm, plus the glass embedded in the table. And there are so many rows that even though there are ten of us total—Deimos, Mal and me, each of our personal guards, plus Mija and three extra guards—we all have room to spread out and then some.

  And that’s before we get to the food selection—there’s a menu I can’t read on each glass, but it has pictures and everything looks amazing. And there are drinks—mostly really strong-smelling ufrike. And herbs. And Deimos said we won’t need to use them, but there are apparently bedrooms somewhere, too.

  Somehow I don’t think all hovercrafts are like this but you never know.

  My glass hums—Kora again. I wave my hand over it, rejecting the call. I’m not going to listen to her justification for why I should let her murderous brother slide. Or why fucken Dima is more important than supporting me.

  Deimos slides his hand over mine and stars dance on my chest. He pushes the glass away and smiles at me. “You look like you’re thinking too much.”

  I run my free hand through my hair. “Probably. How long will it take to get to Daïvi?”

  “Not too long, four segments or so. Which means you have four segments to relax and try to breathe.”

  A low hum fills the hovercraft and the walls and seats and floor vibrate. Is it supposed to do that? Is that normal?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Deimos says. “And shae, this is all normal, don’t panic.” He grins.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Enjoying what? Flying?” He leans close—so close his lips nearly brush my ear as his hot breath washes over my cheek. “Or do you mean seeing you slightly ill at ease? Because you are irresistibly cute when you’re a touch nervous.”

  His words hum against my ear and trickle down my spine and settle—hot—between my legs. I try to brush it off with a laugh and nudge him away with my shoulder but I sortuv doubt he’s going to fall for that.

  “Hey,” Mal says, propping his glasses onto the top of his head. “If you two are going to flirt for four segs, I’m going to sit in another row.”

  I open my mouth to tell him we’ll behave and he can stay, but Deimos puts his hand over my mouth and grins at Mal. “You may want to move then.”

  My whole body warms and prickles. Mal groans, but he’s smirking when he slides off his seat and moves down the aisle, feeling his way past a couple rows with his stick before he plops down next to Mija, who grins at him and ruffles his hair.

  Well. Okay then.

  Deimos moves his hand and grins at me. “Well, that’s adorable. Your face turns more red than purple when you blush.”

  “Shut up.” I run my hands down my face and sigh with a smile. My smile fades, though, as I glance at Mal several rows ahead of us. “You don’t think he’s actually upset about moving, do you?”

  Deimos snorts. “Naï. Even if we weren’t flirting, he doesn’t want to be stuck at your side at all times anyway. He’ll enjoy having a row’s luxuries to himself, trust me.”

  I hesitate, but Deimos touches my shoulder. “You should know, shae? When your brother began dating his future wife, did you want to be stuck with them all hours of the set?”

  Stars and suns alive. It feels like so long ago when Day and Jessa started seeing each other, but Deimos has a point. Day was unbearable in those early sets, pining over Jessa when they were apart and swooning over her when they were together. Granted, I was a lot younger than Mal is when that happened, but I definitely remember hating it.

  “You … have a point.”

  “I know.” Deimos smirks. “I’ve lost count how many times I ended up stuck with one of my mooning brothers for long, unwanted segments. Besides.” He threads his fingers between mine—his unmarked fingers slipping over and next to my inked ones—and rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m tired of holding back and being professional in front of everyone. We finally have some time away from the public or political eye and I’m going to take advantage.”

  I smile and lightly squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. And this—this slow, careful thing unfolding between us—it feels good. It’s in the pressure of his weight against my arm and the warmth of his cheek on my shoulder. It’s in the light touch of his fingers between mine, the circles he’s tracing on the back of my hand with his thumb.

  It’s quiet, and soft, and feels like breathing—really breathing freely—for the first time.

  I don’t know where this thing between us going, but I want more than anything to find out. And I’m going to enjoy every breath of it along the way.

  12

  Kora

  Daïvi’s palace is nothing like Elja’s or Asheron’s, which share a somewhat common architectural aesthetic of mosaics, detailed engravings, and sandstone walls. But Daïvi doesn’t have a desert, and its capital, Vin Eja, looks little like Vejla and Asheron. It has its own unique beauty.

  The palace itself is made to look like a mountain, a nod to the mountainous region of Daïvi’s north, which is considered a blessed region. The walls and floors are made of huge, polished slabs the size of a grown man of sennak, a light blue rock webbed with white and silver. Columns too thick for me to wrap my arms around and engraved with writings from the Jorva from top to bottom are spaced out down every hall, towering over me.

  And the ceilings here—so high it almost feels as though the palace has its own artificial sky.

  “This is amazing,” Uljen says softly, craning his neck to peer at the ceiling. “Is the ceiling engraved, as well?”

  I squint at the shiny rock above us and hesitate. “Possibly? It’s hard to tell from down here.”

  Uljen nods.

  We move out of the dining hall’s entrance as others crowd in behind us. The room, as enormous as it is, is already filling quickly with royals and upper-class citizens and likely Zek’s relatives. Long, rectangular tables full of snack-like small dishes and drinks reach from one side of the room to the other. Enormous glowing geodes hang from the ceiling, filtering multicolored light into the room. Musicians at the far end of the room fill the dining hall with rhythmic drumming as dancers perform in front of them.

  It’s all incredible and uniquely Daïvi in a way that warms me; Mamae always loved the culture of her home. We didn’t get to visit Daïvi as much as we would’ve liked, but I’ll never forget the stories she told me about her childhood and the way her eyes lit up the few times we could visit.

  Daïvi may not be my home, but it is a part of my history.

  And yet, even with that history, even with the part of me that wants to relax and just enjoy this, a sinking part of me knows Eros is going to walk through those giant doors at some point and I’ll have to face him.

  Eros, whose home I destroyed.

  Who saved my life.

  Who I kissed and turned away from.

  Who I apologized too late to, and who I lost.

  Who wants to execute my brother in his territory. Because sha, there’d be a trial, but we both know Dima would be saddled with both his own crimes and Roma’s in an Asheron court—and that could only end with my brother on his knees before an executione
r.

  Maybe I bear some responsibility for Eros’s apathy regarding Dima’s well-being—after all, it was in saving my life that Dima captured Eros and tortured him for sets on end. But I wasn’t expecting Eros to agree to my request for Dima’s sake—I’d hoped he would’ve respected my wishes for mine. But apparently not.

  And now, if I’m being honest, I don’t really want to see him at all.

  I grab a glass of spiced azuka—a Daïvi special. Unlike the stone flutes in Elja, the cups here are made of glass, probably at least in part to show off the beautiful drinks. In the glass, the spiced azuka looks like a deep blue sky—if skies were blue—scattered with silver stars that swirl around when I move the cup or sip the drink.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I take a gulp. The warmth trickles into my chest as the spicy sweetness lingers on my tongue. I’m not going to drink too much—wedding or not, I have to keep my wits and represent Elja the best I can—but maybe the drink will dull the anxious edges of my breaths.

  “Kora.”

  I open my eyes. Uljen is smiling at me and has his hand extended. I’m not sure why he’s extending his hand. Unless …

  “Dance with me?” Uljen nods to the space in front of the drummers, where people are dancing in long rows, arms intertwined over each other’s shoulders.

  “You know how to dance balaika?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  “Not really,” he admits with a shrug. “But they look like they’re having fun, and I’m sure you’ll teach me.”

  I smile and take his hand. “I’d be happy to.”

  We join the last row, with my left arm over the shoulder of a blushing girl around my age, laughing as she dances, and my right over Uljen’s. Uljen slides his arm over mine and grins as we move side to side—right for eight steps, left for eight, right for seven, left for seven—faster and faster until we start over at eight again. The steps are easy enough and Uljen catches on quickly, whooping with the others, his face lit up with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen from him.

  It’s contagious. Soon, I’m smiling and laughing and whooping, too, as my feet move faster and my breaths grow hot and the drumbeat pounds in my chest like an extra heartbeat, but stronger, making my bones shake and head vibrate, until the song ends and we break apart with cheers and whistles.

  I’d forgotten how loud, carefree, and full of energy the Daïvi are. It reminds me of mamae, with her endless smiles and the way she’d tease father’s stern demeanor. It reminds me of the night she taught Dima and me how to dance balaika when we were eight or so, arm in arm, dancing until we were a breathless, giggling heap on the floor. I love it.

  “Are you all right?” Uljen frowns and hesitantly reaches toward me, then stops. “You’re crying.”

  I wipe my thumbs under my eyes to clear away the tears hopefully without ruining my liner. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. “Just remembering. I’m happy.”

  “Okay.” He smiles and glances around as a new drumbeat begins and the crowd pairs up. “I don’t know this dance either.” He grins.

  I laugh and take his hands. And we dance song to song, in pairs, in groups of four, in lines, moving with the thunder of drums echoing in our lungs and laughter in the air.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve been able to unwind like this. Even at my lifecycle celebration, I was tight with nerves while anticipating the announcement of an engagement that never happened. But today isn’t for me. Today is to celebrate someone else’s happiness. And it feels so, so good to soak in the collective joy and celebrate together.

  Long strands of Uljen’s dark hair slip from his tie as he dances and sweat glistens on his bronze skin. His movements are occasionally slightly stiff, slightly careful—while he seems to have mastered walking without pause, I imagine dancing with a prosthetic leg takes some practice—but his smile is easy and free. I suspect I’m not the only one who hadn’t been able to really let go like this in a long time—the relief and ecstasy is in his glistening eyes and the way he tosses his head back when he laughs and shouts with the crowd.

  Kala, his happiness is radiant.

  Then we do a turn and I catch a glimpse over Uljen’s shoulder. To the entrance of the hall, where three familiar faces smother the laughter in my chest.

  Eros, Deimos, and Mal are here.

  And Eros is looking right at me.

  13

  Eros

  The last thing I want to be thinking about right now is Kora, so naturally she’s the first one I see as we enter the hall. Miraculously, it looks like she’s actually having fun—I was starting to think fun wasn’t a language she’d learned—and even more surprisingly she’s dancing with a guy. He has burn scars on his face, chest, and arm, so I’m pretty sure he’s her new advisor or whatever.

  Which—even though I’m irritated as fuck about this ridiculous Dima shit she’s pulling—good. I’m glad she’s moving on. I sure Voiding have.

  Deimos’s hand touches the small of my back, skipping warm sparks over my skin. I glance at him and he smiles, and then I’m smiling because it’s impossible to see him smile and not smile back.

  “This will be fun,” Deimos says. “The Daïvi are my second favorite people to party with.”

  I smirk. “Second favorite?”

  “Well, I’m partial to my own, of course.” He grins and laughs a little. “But the Daïvi make a close second.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” a woman says, nearing us with a smirk. Her long brown hair is braided back and her eyes are just two colors—purple and blue. I haven’t met her yet in person, but Deimos showed me Avra Riza’s photo on the trip over.

  “Heard what, ol Avra?” Deimos grins and bows, and so do Mal and I, although actually I’m not sure if I’m supposed to bow since I’m Sira, but uh, oh well. I’d rather be too polite than accidentally blaze someone off.

  Riza bows to me and smiles. “It’s an honor to have you in my home, Sira Eros. On behalf of my people, we welcome you with open arms to our illustrious territory.”

  It’s still bizarre getting treated so well by other Sepharon. I keep waiting to get used to it, to hear Sira before my name like it isn’t a tacked-on, mismatched piece. But so far, at least, the whole thing still feels artificial. Like some out-there fever dream, or some elaborate joke that’ll end with me on my knees in the Arena and a crowd full of Sepharon laughing that I ever thought any of this was real, even for a mo.

  But even though the disconnect is still there, I push it away and say what I’m supposed to. “Thank you.”

  Riza nods and her gaze catches on Deimos’s hand still on my back. Her lips quirk into a smile as she extends her arm, gesturing to the huge hall in front of us. “Please enjoy the welcoming festivities as our final guests arrive. The ceremony will begin shortly.”

  “We intend to. Thank you.” Deimos gently nudges me forward and I take Mal’s shoulder as we move into the crowd.

  I make a point not to look at the dance area where I last spotted Kora.

  I don’t want to see her.

  Deimos, Mal, and I mingle. We kinduv don’t have a choice—or at least, I don’t, but Deimos and Mal choose to suffer through it with me, Deimos because he’s Deimos and Mal I suspect mostly because he doesn’t know the layout of the room and also we get cornered next to the table full of hand food, which is probably all the motivation Mal needs to put up with the political talk. He also “accidentally” nudges people with his stick when they get too close or crowd him, which I pretend not to notice. Just means he’s fending for himself. Good.

  I’m hungry, too, but eating and talking at the same time without being disgusting has never been a skill I mastered, so I ignore my stomach and focus on the warmth of Deimos’s hand on my back instead. It’s a little thing, a light pressure, but his determination to touch me however he can, whenever he can, is a constant reminder he’s here. I don’t have to face any of this alone. And it’s enough to keep my breaths even and raging energy inside me ca
lm.

  We talk to more people than I could ever bother trying to remember the names of. Or rather, they talk to me, and I nod and comment when I can and mostly try to focus on just looking interested in between while the conversations drone from one to the other. Person to person, the topics are mostly the same: my new position, the nanites, the disease situation in Asheron, and my least favorite topic: my background.

  “So it’s true you grew up in the desert with the redblood rebels?” one girl asks, eyes wide and hand over her mouth like I just admitted something horrifying.

  “With the human nomads, sha,” I say. “Not the kinduv rebels you’re likely thinking of, though. Mine are a peaceful people who try to keep to themselves.”

  She leans uncomfortably close and touches my arm, her voice dripping with false sincerity. “That must have been so hard.” She doesn’t care what my life was like. I’m just some sideshow to her.

  To most of them, probably.

  The truth is, it was hard, but not for any of the reasons she’s thinking. It wasn’t living off the desert (though I’ll admit some cycles were better than others) or not having much in terms of technology, luxuries, or possessions that made things hard.

  It was being seen as less than. Being treated like a freak at best and an enemy at worst. It was the hopelessness of knowing bone-deep I wouldn’t get a happy ending, of knowing my best-case scenario was dying alone in my old age.

  It wasn’t until recently that I started to believe that last part might change. But just a cycle ago, I didn’t just think those things, I was sure of them. The world wouldn’t let me believe anything else.

  I settle with, “It was a quiet life.” I don’t say until Kora blazed everything up, even though that’s the truth.

  “Your story is so inspiring, though,” she says, and she’s still touching my arm, and I don’t know how to move away without seeming rude, and she’s smiling at me and it’s kinduv weird and making me prickly. And not in a good way.