Into the Black

by Ava Jae

  “Mal needs medical attention.” The words roll off my lips and stumble into the air. Kora stares at me, and Deimos glances at Mal passed out on the bed. “He’s partially blind,” I add. “The nanites … the Remnant doc thinks it’s brain damage from the nanite attack. She said nanites might be able to fix it.”

  “Did she also mention the nanites are dead?” Deimos asks. “Which is why we’re standing here sweating our asses off?”

  I suppress a groan. “Sha, but—”

  “Deimos is right,” Kora says brusquely. “Once our medical system is rebuilt, that’s something you can discuss with the medics, but right now there isn’t much anyone can do.”

  It doesn’t surprise me she doesn’t care about Mal, either, because why would she? She only cares about herself. But it doesn’t stop my chest from tightening or my pulse from drumming louder. “And how long will that take?”

  “A long time, unfortunately,” Deimos answers. “Cycles, probably. Part of your job as Sira will be figuring out how to fill the gap in the meantime, but … you don’t need to worry about that just yet. Let’s get you on the throne first … starting tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Kora yelps. “The Council is meeting now. We should be there already.”

  “I agree,” Deimos says. “But Eros is clearly not in the right frame of mind to face them now, and if he goes in there seeming weak, it’ll only damage his position.”

  “But—”

  “Look,” Deimos says a little more forcefully. “I know you think you know what’s best because you were formerly an Avra, but I was also raised in politics, and while no one ever expects I’ll rule myself given the number of brothers I have ahead of me, I was taught how to maneuver the courts all the same. How we play this is important—and how Eros is perceived right now will make or break his chance to convince the Council he’s the right man for the job. If we mess this up now, he’s done.”

  Kora frowns. “It was one thing when Eros wasn’t here—then my representing him alone was the best that I could do. But now that he is, the Council won’t take lightly to his refusing to make an appearance. It’ll be useless for me to go in there alone.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “It won’t. Tell them Eros sent you as his representative—he’s had a long journey and he’s resting; he’ll make his formal appearance tomorrow. But in the meantime, you’re there to make sure his claim is considered, because he is here and he is ready to take the throne.” Deimos glances at me and grimaces. “Or … so we’ll tell them, anyway. We’ll handle reality tomorrow.”

  Maybe I should be irritated they’re talking for me and making decisions about me. Maybe it should bother me the way Deimos looks at me with something like pity. But the truth is, he’s not wrong—I’m not ready for this today. The world is rolling past me like I’m not here, and I can barely focus on their conversation, let alone what I could possibly say to the Council. At least Deimos gets that.

  Kora looks at me, supposed concern etched into her furrowed brow, the downward tilt to her lips, the stiffness of her posture. “What do you think, Eros?” she says, softening her voice.

  “Sha,” I say, and my voice sounds tired, so blazing tired, even to me. “I’ll face everyone tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like this,” Kora says.

  “You’ve made that clear,” Deimos answers. “But this is the best we can do with what we have.”

  Kora shakes her head and turns to the door, but even as it slides open, her words sink like stones in my gut. “I can’t help you if you cut me off at the knees, Eros. Remember that.”

  The door thuds closed behind her. Deimos sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “You look like you need rest but aren’t going to get any anytime soon.”

  I grimace. “Probably not.”

  “Well I’m starving, and you two likely are as well, so let’s find some food, sha?”

  Walking down the cool, stone halls with guards as my shadows, all I can think about is I still haven’t apologized to Eros.

  And that last argument didn’t help.

  I sigh and refrain from pinching the bridge of my nose. I can’t look worried or stressed with guards on my back—I have to project confidence I don’t have. But I should have taken some time to pull Eros aside privately and clear the air with him, and I didn’t. I dove right into the task because … well …

  It’s easier to think about politics—to argue about politics—than to admit my colossal mistake. It was easier to be irritated by his lack of cooperation than to acknowledge I probably hurt him. Than to admit I don’t deserve his forgiveness.

  The truth is, I’m terrified I’ll apologize and he won’t want to hear it. What if my saying I’m sorry confirms it’s far too late to make amends? I’m not certain how I would handle that rejection, even though it’s exactly what I’d deserve after the way I rejected him.

  I need to apologize. But the thought of bringing up the conversation sends my stomach spiraling to my toes.

  As I near the gold-engraved doors to the private meeting room, I shake my head. I can worry about when to apologize to Eros later. Now I need to focus.

  The five men making up the Council scowl as I enter, not that I expected anything else. Unlike most of the open windows in the palace, the meeting room’s walls are a specially tinted glass—smooth and clear, so from the inside it appears as though there are no walls at all and the view into the large palace garden is beautiful, but on the outside, the glass is so deeply purple it’s impossible to view inside. The afternoon light filters into the room and reflects off the polished tile floor—every tile a unique, shiny swirl of gold and silver, white, and black. In the center of the room is a long, floating table with a large glass embedded in the middle that can be used to project whatever is relevant into the air. Today, however, the projection is off.

  Four of the men here I’d already met—the former Avrae who were there the set before, Tamus, Hala, Ruen, and Oniks. The only woman, Lija da Daïvi, must have arrived this morning, along with the man with the most power on this council, former Sira Ashen. Like her son, Daven, who I met before everything went to the Void at my lifecycle celebration not so long ago, Lija’s eyes are that particular combination of green centers, thick hazel, and dark blue borders. Unlike Daven, however, her long hair betrays her northern roots—it’s so light, it nearly appears white, like the purest shade of the aska stone that made up the temple back in Elja. Combined with her smooth, light brown skin, she’s quite beautiful.

  Ashen, meanwhile … it’s startling how much he looks like Serek. His long, lean figure; the slightly lighter tint of his brown skin, his pointed jaw and chiseled nose—it’s clear who Serek took after in terms of appearances. Which is unsettling, given Ashen’s reputation for being much closer in personality to his violent son, Roma.

  “Riase,” I say, bowing as I address the former rulers by their most respectful title. “I apologize for interrupting. I’m Kora Mikale Nel—”

  “We know who you are, Kora d’Elja,” Ashen says gravely. “What’s more important is what makes you think you have the right to barge in here uninvited.”

  I clasp my hands behind my back. “Of course. I just wanted to be certain the Council was aware Eros—the son of Asha ana da Kala Serek spoke of—has arrived in Asheron and intends to pursue his right to the throne. He sent me here as his representative, to formally submit his candidacy to the Council here today.”

  “His right,” Ashen says flatly. “He’s a half-blood. He has no rights.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Lija da Daïvi beats me to a response. “Actually, as you mentioned at the beginning of this meeting, Eros’s genetic claim has been verified by Asheron’s best geneticists. He is, to our knowledge, the only son of Sira Asha, who was taken before his time.”

  I nod. “Had Asheron been aware of his existence when Sira Asha was killed, I don’t doubt he would have been installed as the next Sira as soon as he came of age, but of course we can�
��t turn back the cycles.”

  “Kala knows what my son was thinking when he chose to … procreate with a redblood.” Ashen grimaces. “I can’t even begin to imagine the circumstances that brought him to believe it was a good—or even merely acceptable—idea. But the fact of the matter is, we don’t know what he intended with the half-blood. Whatever it was, however, we can be certain it wasn’t to install a halfbreed as Sira.”

  The other men mutter their agreement, but Lija doesn’t look so convinced. “I don’t believe we can say anything about Sira Asha’s intentions for certain, as he was killed before he could make any formal announcement.”

  Ashen pulls his shoulders back, his voice confident and calm. “Had he intended to make the half-blood his inheritor, he would have announced it formally in Asheron the set of the half-blood’s birth. As he didn’t—”

  “Actually,” I cut in, “before ana da Kala Serek was killed, we’d determined Sira Asha was killed the set of his son’s birth. Sira Asha was murdered not far from the capital—it’s not a stretch to imagine he was perhaps returning to Asheron to make the formal announcement himself.”

  “This is nonsense,” Hala d’Inara says. “The redbloods don’t even understand our calendar—it’d be nearly impossible to determine the set of the half-blood’s birth based off their rudimentary capture of time.”

  “It would have been difficult,” I say, “but it was made easier when Eros told us he was born on the last full solar eclipse, over eighteen cycles ago.”

  Ashen rolls his eyes. “Of course he would make that claim—everyone knows the night my son was murdered by those rebels.”

  “But Eros didn’t—the redbloods have no reason or resource to keep remembrance of our tragedies. He was shocked to learn he was born the same night as Sira Asha’s assassination.”

  “Of course he was,” Ashen answers dryly. “As shocked, I’m sure, as he pretended to be upon discovering he was supposedly next in line for the Sirae throne.”

  “Eros had no idea until the nanites my people injected him with reacted to the ones disguising the true color of his eyes, and we flushed his system to save him.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Regardless of whether he was aware of his lineage,” Lija da Daïvi says, “ana da Kala Serek wasn’t wrong when he claimed Eros has a legitimate birthright this Council needs to consider when determining the next Sira. In fact, if he wasn’t a half-blood, we wouldn’t be having this meeting at all—he would have been crowned the moment his genetics were confirmed.”

  “Which doesn’t matter,” Tamus d’Ona answers, “because he is a half-blood, which all but erases his legitimacy because we have no way of knowing his father’s intentions when he chose to have a son with a redblood.”

  Lija sighs impatiently. “Asha’s intentions wouldn’t have mattered if Eros’s mother weren’t a redblood.”

  “But she was,” Ashen says. “Which means my son’s intentions are the only thing that matter—but as we have no way of raising the dead to ask him, we’ll have to decide the matter ourselves.” He turns to me, spearing me with the golden centers of his intense gaze. “If the boy is so eager to claim the throne, why is he not here to do it himself? Why send a disgraced girl thrown from her own territory to speak for him?”

  Every royal turns to me as my body flushes with prickling heat. I clench my fists behind my back and force myself not to glare, not to cry, not to rage with anger or lose control. I am a royal and today, Eros’s representative and his only chance to force the Council not to disqualify him outright.

  I can do this. I must do this.

  Strength. Power. Respect.

  Ah—respect.

  “It’s true my brother framed me for a crime I didn’t commit and forced me to flee my own territory. But I am not disgraced—I am a former Avra just like many of you, and I hold a right to be in this room and speak for my future Sira. Eros will make his first official appearances tomorrow, but today he’s had a long journey and needs to rest. He wants to be his best when he faces the Council, so out of respect to all of you, he has chosen to send me in his stead rather than approach you unprepared.”

  Lija nods. “A reasonable request; how many of us have at one time or another sent a representative in our stead rather than disrespect our host by arriving exhausted?”

  “A suitable representative maybe,” Tamus says. “Not a failed Avra.”

  “Perhaps if he’d been here with you, at least,” Hala d’Inara adds. “Exhausted or not, if he didn’t have a suitable representative, he should have either come himself or approached us with you.”

  Their words sting, but they’re not wrong—I wanted Eros to come with me. I knew they wouldn’t take me seriously, not alone, but he …

  Well. Judging by the way this conversation is going, I suspect the recording I was originally going to use would only further sour the mood. And if I’m being true, nothing I could have prepared with or without him would have likely changed their resistance. Still, I wish he’d come with me so they had one less argument against him.

  I can only hope he’ll be better prepared to face everyone tomorrow. Another refusal could spell the end of his campaign before it ever begins, assuming I manage to pull this off at all.

  “These circumstances aren’t ideal,” I say, “but they’re not unprecedented either. Eros has the right to choose a representative when he isn’t prepared to arrive himself, as was the case. He trusts me, and I him, and tomorrow he’ll begin to show all of you why I believe him to be the next Sira, just as ana da Kala Sira-kaï Serek proclaimed.”

  “So be it,” Ashen says. “But this position will not be handed to him regardless of what my son announced globally, and what any genetic test may claim. The test and my son’s sacrifice are the only reasons I’m allowing the half-blood to be considered at all, but the throne will go to the best one for the job—and I’m nowhere near convinced your boy even begins to satisfy the credentials for the position.”

  “I understand.” I bow to the former Sira and Avrae. “Thank you for your consideration in this delicate matter.”

  But as I turn away and stride back to the door, Ashen’s words tumble over and over in my mind, repeating a truth I did not speak, a truth I fear Ashen knows anyway.

  If Eros doesn’t shape up and start taking this seriously, I’m not certain he’ll be the best one for the job, either.

  I keep waiting for the point where exhaustion forces me to shut down. Where my scattered mos of rest between staring at the ceiling with a rioting mind, and tossing and turning in my enormous bed—never quite comfortable despite the ocean of pillows—leave me more exhausted than I was before I first closed my eyes. Between the moments when my mind gives in and I snatch snippets of sleep full of blood, explosions, fire, smoke, and so, so much death (Nol—Esta—Day—Jessa—Nia—Aren, bits of people splashed across Jol’s arena).

  I keep waiting for the moment when my mind says enough and forces me into a deep, dreamless sleep, but no matter how much I want it, it doesn’t come.

  The edges of pink and blue have just touched the horizon when I step outside and breathe in the warm desert morning while touching the edges of Aren’s bracelet on my wrist. Some guards follow, but no one questions me as I push one step after another, faster, faster, as my toes dig into the white, gritty sand, so much harsher than the smooth red powder from home, but somehow better than the cold, metal flooring of the Remnant.

  This isn’t my desert or my sand, but at least I’m outside and despite the guards shadowing me here and there, have the freedom to go where I want, whenever I want. At least I’m under the same twin suns echoing of home.

  The palace complex is larger than Kora’s was in Elja—there are multiple courtyards and gardens, a library and records building, a museum; shops selling sweets, clothes, shoes, perfumes, books, ports, gadgets, decorative rugs and vases and plants, more clothes, more perfumes, more shoes; a section just for merchant stalls; statues and fountains and perf
ectly placed plants everywhere; and near the front gate, a line of red tile embedded in the ground, marking some kinduv security sweep always heavily covered with guards.

  The palace complex is its own microcity within the city of Asheron. Everything is clean and maintained; the patrons setting up their shops barely spare me a passing glance as I jog by. I’m not sure if it’s confidence in their government or duty that keeps them continuing business as usual even when the air is thick with uncertainty, but I can’t help but think this is what Vejla should have looked like back in Elja. This is what stability looks like.

  I’m about halfway through my first circuit around the perimeter of the enormous complex when someone familiar comes jogging toward me. My body tenses—my breath’s stiffer, shallower, my heart pounding harder—and I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Deimos has only ever been nice to me. But I can’t stop the edges of fear racing through me as he nears with that all-too familiar smile.

  It’s not him, I remind myself, because I’m not—I’m not freaking out because of him. It’s anyone. It’s my brain. It’s me. My hypersensitive, asshole brain making me flinch and setting my heart racing at the slightest thing.

  I hate it.

  “Or’denja!” Deimos says cheerfully, slowing to turn and continue alongside me. It takes me a moment to parse the words from his accent—the vowels drawn out and consonants sharper than I’m used to. Or’denja. Good morning.

  “Denna,” I answer stiffly.

  If he notices my lack of enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. “It doesn’t surprise me you’re a morning runner, too. Always made me the odd man out back home—in A’Sharaf, the mornings are full of merchants and sailors all over the docks, which makes a morning run more complicated and dangerous in theory, I suppose, so most of the royals wait until nightfall when curfew sends everyone inside and the sea breeze tints the shadows. It’s very pleasant, actually, if you don’t mind how terribly boring it is …”