The Rising Gold

by Ava Jae

  Well. The nerves were real even if I was well aware I hadn’t been sleeping long before Deimos joined me in bed.

  Since then we still haven’t done anything more than kiss and touch above the waist, and, humiliatingly, I have a sinking feeling it’s because Deimos has picked up on the fact that I have no fucken clue what I’m doing and is taking it slow with me.

  Which—I appreciate but also kinduv wish he didn’t take it that slow. But I guess it’s only been ten sets. Still.

  Anyway. My not sleeping isn’t nerves—we both know that. And if I’m being honest, he’s right, I guess. I need to sleep—I know that, I’ve known that.

  But sleeping means dreaming, and dreaming means reliving the worst sets of my life.

  Deimos takes my hands and rubs his thumbs over my skin with a small smile. “Do it for me, shae? I’m worried about you. I want you well.”

  And with those wide eyes staring me down and his light grip on my hands, it’s impossible to say no to him and he knows it.

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  Deimos leans forward and kisses me lightly. “Thank you.”

  Twenty mos or so later—after Mija takes ten to make me look “presentable”—Deimos and I are walking down the hall to the palace’s personal medical center—not the larger one in the palace complex, but a much smaller version reserved for my advisors, Mal, and me—with Kosim and Fejn on our heels.

  “He’ll likely just give you something to aid your sleeping,” Deimos says. “It’ll knock you out for six or seven segs at a time. So you don’t have to lie awake in bed anymore.”

  A cold trickle crawls down my spine and burrows into my stomach. What if whatever they give me traps me in my dreams? What if it knocks me out, but in the process I can’t wake up when the nightmare gets bad?

  Could that happen? Is that a thing?

  Fuck, maybe this is a bad idea. The dreams are bad enough when I wake up in a cold sweat, panting, a scream frozen in my throat. If I was trapped in them, it’d be an endless torture in my own mind.

  I don’t want to sleep if it means getting trapped in Dima’s dungeon again, or watching Day die again, or killing Lejv even though I didn’t kill Lejv, or drowning in the blood on my hands until—

  “Ej. Eros. Look at me.” Deimos is standing in front of me, holding my shoulders. When did that happen? We’re under an overhang with white sands scattered over the black stone. Wait—when did we get here? Where are we?

  “Breathe,” Deimos says. It’s not a request. Breathe. I breathe in and out and in and out and Deimos nods, but the set of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes—I’m freaking him out.

  I’m freaking me out.

  Did—did I black out?

  “Okay?” Deimos says.

  I shake my head. “I think this is a bad idea.”

  “Really? Because I’m more sure than ever that letting you convince me you were fine and the sleeping thing wasn’t a problem was the worst idea I’ve had in ages.”

  “I can’t get stuck in the dreams,” I blurt out. “I can’t do it. If—if I can’t wake up because of something I’m taking, I’ll be trapped and—I can’t, Deimos. I can’t do that.” My breaths are stuttering in my chest. The heat of the suns is overwhelming and my chest and face are fire and Deimos’s frown deepens and I’m scaring him—stars, when did I get so fucken panicky?—and he opens his mouth—

  “El Sira.” It takes half a mo for me to a realize the voice doesn’t match Deimos’s lips because Deimos didn’t speak.

  I glance back. Kosim and Fejn are both frowning deeply. I’d forgotten they were there. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure they haven’t seen me melt down like this before either. I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. What’ll happen if they think I can’t handle my position? Can I be removed from being Sira for being a panicky little—

  “I apologize for interrupting,” Kosim says. “But we just received word about something serious. Kantos needs to speak with you in the conference room.”

  Kantos is the head of the guard, right, I remember that. I don’t think he likes me very much—the few times I’ve spoken to him, he always looked like he had something that tasted terrible stuck in his mouth—but he does his job, which is all that really matters.

  “Can it wait?” Deimos says. “I really think it’s of vital importance Eros see a medic immediately.”

  “This is very serious,” Kosim says.

  I take a hot, shaky breath. “I’m fine.” Deimos starts protesting, but I talk over him. “We’ll see what’s going on, then go to the medic, okay? I’m not about to take something that’ll knock me out in the middle of the set anyway.”

  Deimos purses his lips but reluctantly nods. “We’re going to the medic immediately after. No excuses, Eros. I won’t allow you to avoid this any longer.”

  My stomach twists at the thought of getting trapped in those nightmares, but I nod anyway. “Let’s just get this over with.” I look at Kosim. “Lead the way.”

  The conference room is small. Well, small in comparison to the rest of the rooms but not a space I would’ve called small a couple terms ago. A large floating table—that I’m pretty sure is actually a huge glass—fills up most of the space. Kantos, as expected, is already there waiting for us, as are ten or so other guys who all look as uptight and reluctant to see me as Kantos does. All in military uniforms and enough markings to indicate they’re probably all important or high-ranking or something. I haven’t quite figured out the marking system thing yet, but generally the more there are, the more status someone has.

  Except for me, which Deimos says I should change if only to show I’m embracing tradition, but embedding ink under my skin isn’t really high on my list on priorities given the way everything’s gone to shit so quickly.

  “El Sira.” Kantos and the others bow as we enter. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”

  It hits me all at once I haven’t seen Mal yet this morning. Not that that’s unusual—he usually sleeps in well into the set and moseys over to the morning meal around noon—and this probably has nothing to do with Mal, but my mind jumps to the worst at “terrible news” and the worst right now would be something happening to Mal.

  I can deal with just about anything as long as Mal and Deimos stay safe.

  But this probably has nothing to do with Mal, so I force myself to keep those fears to myself and instead say, “Go on.”

  Kantos taps the table and it lights up with the feed interface I’ve gotten used to. But he clears those away with a wave of his hand and opens a file that he unlocks with a palm print and eye scan before he gestures the glass to project an image over the table.

  It takes me a mo to process what I’m fucken looking at.

  Three Sepharon men, hanging upside down with—with no faces.

  Like, their faces are bloody, flat, purple pulps because their faces have been cut off. They’re dead, obviously, and I can only hope the mutilation happened after they died because fuck.

  I force myself to look at Kantos and not that dripping mass of purple flesh, glinting with bone. “What is this?”

  “That’s an image from the city square this morning,” Kantos says. “Redbloods have taken credit for the attack.” He swipes his hand through the image and it adjusts, like a turning camera, to a nearby wall painted with purple blood. There are words on the wall, in English and Sephari, and these guys don’t know I can’t read. I recognize one word though: NO.

  Still, even if I can’t read the whole thing, that there’s English on there at all definitely means humans were involved, since most Sepharon don’t understand a word of English.

  “Does this mean anything to you?” Kantos asks. “Do you know what the Remnant is?” My heart jerks at the word. Kantos must see the change in my face, because he grimaces. “You do.”

  Fuck. Rani swore she’d ruin my life if I didn’t give them what they wanted once I became Sira. And Shaw came here to warn me himself and—I can’t. I can’t handle thi
s right now. But I have to. Fuck.

  “I’ve met the group who calls themselves the Remnant, once. We aren’t really on friendly terms.”

  “I see. Do you know what they want?”

  The room is hot. They left a message in fucken Sepharon blood in the middle of the city. This is going to get worse. This is going to get worse but I can’t just overhaul this government in a set. I can’t throw away their ages of tradition, and I said I’d try to help them but how can I focus on that when people are fucken dying? First the sickness, now this? “Nothing I can give them right away,” I say with my heart in my throat.

  “You realize this is a threat.” Kantos points to the projection. “‘No more. The Remnant will rise.’ This is an insurrection. We must put them down before this catches on and becomes a problem we can’t easily control.”

  The Remnant will rise. They’re coming after me. They’ll start a war.

  “Do you know who did this yet?” My voice is tight. I can barely breathe. It’s really fucken hot in here and Kantos sounds far away when he speaks.

  “We have footage of the perpetrators, sha.”

  So far away. Like he’s speaking in another room, like I’m not even here, like the air is turning solid in my lungs and clinging to my skin and pressing in on all sides. It’s getting harder to breathe. To focus. To stay here, in this moment, in this room of Sepharon men staring at me for some kinduv answer, some kinduv leadership, something.

  “And do you have them in custody?” Deimos asks for me.

  Kantos purses his lips. “Not yet.”

  “Then I think we should focus on that.” Deimos looks at me. “Right, Eros?”

  “Sha.” My voice is tight. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. They cut their fucken faces off. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to stop them?

  The door opens next to me. It’s Varo. Isn’t he supposed to be watching Mal?

  “What is the meaning of this?” Kantos scowls, stepping toward Varo. “You know better than to disturb such an important meeting.”

  “El Sira.” Varo bows and stands stiffly, his fists at his sides. “My sincerest apologies for interrupting to bother you with this, but it’s urgent. I—I’m afraid I can’t find Mal.”

  The thunder of my heart is a roar, drowning out everything else. He can’t find—what does he mean he can’t find Mal? His fucken job is to watch over Mal, what does he—what does that mean?

  Mal is missing?

  No. No no no. Mal can’t be missing—where would he have gone? The palace complex is big, but he never goes that far, he’s still getting to know the place and—and—

  Stars above. What if the Remnant got him?

  Could they have done that?

  Could they have gotten in here?

  “Eros, it’s okay, we’re going to find him. I’m sure he’s fine; he’s probably just exploring again.” Deimos’s voice. Deimos in front of me. Really close. I’m crouching against a wall and gripping my hair tight—tight—and the pain isn’t grounding me, the pain isn’t doing anything, and my whole body is hot and prickling and I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t lose Mal I can’t I can’t I—

  “Everything is going to be fine.” Deimos is holding my face. My head is throbbing, my heart is screaming, my lungs are aching.

  “Find him,” I whisper. Kantos and the guards are staring at me. Everyone is watching me break to pieces. I’m losing it in front of them and I don’t even care because no one is moving and Mal is missing.

  “Of course,” Deimos says. “They’ll find him, don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine—”

  “FIND HIM.” The words explode out of me, but I’m not looking at Deimos, I’m looking at Kantos and Varo and all these other useless assholes staring at me instead of doing their fucken jobs.

  Deimos winces, but it’s enough. They file out of the room.

  And I crumble into Deimos’s arms, everything pouring out of me, a storm I can’t contain, as he pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.

  Holds me together.

  19

  Kora

  It’s been twenty-four full sets since Eros was coronated and nineteen since slavery was abolished in Elja.

  I’d expected the complaints and outright disrespect from upper-crest individuals displeased with the new law Eros established—and of course they made themselves known, through a wave of calls and pulled support and claims that I was somehow doing the freed people a disservice by supporting Eros’s law. But the shameful truth is I should have done this in Elja cycles ago.

  I was just too scared to make a move that might upset some people—and worse, I ignored the need to overcome that fear while others were treated as property instead of people. Nothing erases what I overlooked. Nothing excuses what I allowed with inaction, what I benefited from in silence.

  I can’t erase that and I’m ashamed I waited for someone else to do it for me.

  But now, nineteen sets later, the displeased calls have died away. The former servants who wanted to stay behind for pay are now getting a living wage. And the halls are emptier, of course they are, but it’s a peaceful kind of quiet.

  “You look nervous.” Lira, my new personal assistant—a redblood girl—weaves the brush through my hair. Her dark eyes meet mine in the reflection of the mirror, and her lips quirk with a tilt, almost daring me to lie. “Is it because of the trial tomorrow?”

  My stomach twists tight and I press my lips together as I brush my fingers over the chain of my earring. The one Mamae gave me. The one that makes me think of her.

  Dima’s trial.

  I’ve made it through the last many sets by thinking about the trial as little as possible. But now with only segments separating us from the set my brother faces Elja to get tried for his crimes, I can’t really do that anymore.

  In the end, Eros let the matter of Dima’s trial go, I suspect in large part because he has his hands full with the plague—and now newly reported redblood violence—in Asheron. The quarantine has managed to keep the disease contained in the city, but I can only imagine how stressful it must be to watch helplessly as your people die until the medics discover some sort of cure or preventative. And now the recent attacks against Asheron officials aren’t going to help matters.

  So while I do feel somewhat bad about what Eros must be going through right now, part of me is glad he’s had enough distraction that he let the case of Dima go.

  But of course, the Eljans aren’t going to let it go. And I shouldn’t either. Dima has to stand trial for what he did—I just hope they don’t kill him for it.

  Even if a part of me whispers that if he weren’t my brother, I might think he deserved it.

  “The trial worries me, sha,” I say.

  Lira nods and begins braiding my hair.

  “You’re doing the right thing, though,” Uljen says from across the room. He’s lying back on my bed in a way that’s way too familiar—does Lira notice? Does she know we’ve been fooling around?

  Do I care?

  “I know,” I say. “It just doesn’t really feel like the right thing.”

  “The right thing doesn’t always feel good,” Lira says. “Sometimes the right thing feels downright terrible. But how we feel about something doesn’t change whether it’s right or wrong—at least, not when it comes to someone else’s crimes.”

  I sigh and close my eyes. “Am I terrible for hoping they’ll go easy on him?”

  “I wouldn’t say terrible,” Lira says. “Just naïve.”

  Uljen sighs and sits up. “You really want them to go easy on him? After everything he did?”

  “He’s my brother, Uljen. I don’t want him to die.”

  “What if the choice were between a quick execution or living the rest of his sets in an underground prison, never seeing the suns again? I think I’d rather death, to be honest.” Uljen shrugs.

  I scowl. “You’re not helping.”

  “I’m just saying—there are worse things than death. Dea
th could be merciful compared to some other options.”

  “Sha, I’m sure she feels much better now.” Lira rolls her eyes. “Why are you in here again?”

  “I’m her advisor.”

  “Sha, you’re her advisor, not her stylist. I don’t see why you need to be here while she prepares for the set.”

  “Okay,” I say loudly. “Stop fighting, the two of you. Kala, you’re worse than—” I bite my lip. I almost said they were worse than Dima and I used to be, but I’m really, really, trying not to think about my brother right now. If I think about him too much, and think about how we used to be, and how nice the last many sets have been with him—

  “Oh, great, now you’ve made her cry.” Lira quickly ties off my hair and slips in front of me, dabbing my cheeks with a soft cloth.

  “I’ve made her cry?” Uljen scowls. “You’re the one who said it was naïve to hope the Eljans might be merciful to Dima.”

  “Right, because that was so much worse than telling her all the terrible things they might do to him that doesn’t involve killing him—”

  “You two are impossible.” I cover my face with my hands and take a deep, shaky breath. My eyes still sting and my throat still aches but I have to pull myself together. I can’t get emotional, not now. I have to get through this set like an Avra, like I’m confident in our legal system and sure whatever happens tomorrow will be Kala’s will. And I do believe that. Somewhat.

  But when Kala’s will could easily involve my brother’s execution, it’s not really a comforting thought.

  “Can you two try not bickering for a set? Or a segment, even? I really”—I lower my hands and carefully wipe my eyes, taking another careful breath—”I don’t have the energy for it right now.”

  Lira bites her lip and gently touches my shoulder. She looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry Uljen is such a sko.”

  “Excuse me?” Uljen says at the same moment I laugh. I didn’t think it possible, but her serious expression and gentle voice coupled with—with that. She’s bold, and I can’t help it. I laugh.