by Traci Chee
“I’m a direct descendant of Ortega Corabelli,” Eduoar said grimly. “I am cursed.”
Arc didn’t answer. Instead he crossed the room and slumped into his chair, arms dangling over the sides. Ed almost laughed. Arcadimon Detano didn’t slouch. “So what do we do now?” Arc asked. “Just continue on like nothing’s changed?”
Eduoar pressed his cheek against the pillow. “That depends on why you didn’t let me die.”
Arcadimon stared at him for a long moment, long enough for Eduoar to study the veins of gold in his blue eyes and watch doubt and longing pass over his features like the shadows of creatures in the deep.
“Because I’m not ready,” Arcadimon said at last. “I don’t have Abiye’s support, and if you go, she could make a good case for the crown.”
If there was more to it, Eduoar didn’t want to ask. Instead he nodded. Lady Abiye was his great-aunt on his mother’s side. Ruler of Gorman Province, she was a capable leader and a formidable enemy. If she wanted to rule after the end of the Corabelli line, she and Arcadimon could split the kingdom in civil war.
“I’ll take care of it,” Eduoar said.
“You’ll what?” Arcadimon straightened. He looked almost like his old self, except for the wrinkles in his clothes and the surprise in his expression.
Ed almost chuckled. It wasn’t every day he got to surprise his friend. But their days together were coming to an end. “I’ll make sure she’ll support a regency government, with you to lead it,” he said, sobering. “And then . . .”
“Ed . . .”
“And then you’ll help me?” he asked. Begged. “As my friend?”
Pain flickered across Arcadimon’s handsome features.
“Come on, Arc.”
Arcadimon shook his head and pasted on a grin. “All right, all right.” He tugged at his shirt, all bravado. “Just don’t fall in love with me or anything first, okay?”
Eduoar grinned. “Stop looking so good and I’ll try.”
CHAPTER 31
As All Fools Must Do
One of them was going to die, Arcadimon was certain of it. He just didn’t know which.
Me or Eduoar?
He charged down the stairs, lower and lower, to the deepest levels of the castle.
Ed or me?
If he didn’t go through with the assassination, the Guard would kill him. His Master, Darion, might even do it himself. And if that happened, Eduoar would end up dead all the same.
But I love him. Maybe Ed couldn’t admit it, but Arcadimon could no longer ignore it.
He passed into the cellars, winding between barrels of spirits and wheels of ripening cheese.
I can’t kill him.
Reaching for an iron sconce, Arcadimon gave it a hard yank. The stones rumbled, and a section of wall slid aside. He squeezed into the winding stairwell that led deep under the city, to one of the Guard’s branches beneath Corabel. Like a smaller version of the Main Branch, the Corabelli Branch contained a library of its own, dungeons for prisoners, living quarters, and an office for Directors to conduct business when they were in town.
It also contained a portal to the Main Branch, so he could communicate with the other Guardians. He’d been using it to sneak in and out of the city since he was fourteen.
One of us is going to die. His mind turned over the thought like it was a shining piece of glass. Unless I find a way to keep us both alive.
Maybe with Ed on his side, he didn’t need to be regent. With Ed on his side, they could still join the Alliance with Everica and Liccaro. They could still unite the kingdoms under one rule and establish peace in Kelanna that would last for generations.
For the briefest of seconds, Arcadimon imagined him and Eduoar sitting side by side in the courtroom, decked out in white and black and silver as if they’d been cut out of the firmament.
He shook his head. He couldn’t allow himself to dream when he had to plan instead.
As Arc sneaked into the office of the Corabelli Branch, past the tapestried walls and unlit chandeliers, he drew a finger along the surface of Tanin’s desk. It left a streak of jet black in the dust. With Tanin out of commission and Darion firmly ensconced in Everica, no one had been here in months.
If he could convince Darion that they had Eduoar’s support, the Guard could let them both live.
It was a long shot.
But it was the only shot they had.
Unlocking a small, unobtrusive door, Arcadimon entered a small, equally unobtrusive room. All it held was a single floor-length mirror with a frame carved with scenes from the Library—the portal.
Politicians weren’t trained in the upper tiers of Illumination like other Guardians, so he’d never learned to teleport like the Soldiers or the Assassins. Like his Master, he needed portals to traverse the long distances between Corabel, the Main Branch, and Darion’s stronghold in the Everican capital.
To his surprise, however, the room was not empty.
A woman stood before the portal, her silver-streaked black hair trailing down the back of her ivory blouse and leather vest. A lantern sat on the floor beside her.
“Tanin.” Arcadimon stopped short. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
In the mirror, her eyes met his. As if in challenge, she lifted her chin, giving him a look at the injury that had almost taken her life. The scar had the perfect curve of a parenthesis, with impeccable edges.
“Nice to see you after so long, Detano,” she whispered, using his surname like an insult. Of all the Guardians, Politicians were selected more for their connections than their aptitude for Illumination, so only Politicians got to keep their last names. “You look a little flustered. Something ruffle your feathers?”
Suddenly aware of his rumpled clothes, Arcadimon resisted the urge to tuck in his shirt. Instead, he flashed her a smile that would have made anyone else weak at the knees. “Nothing I can’t smooth over.”
The words sounded more confident than he felt. After all, he was going to bargain for the life of the boy he loved.
Against the man who’d taught him to bargain in the first place.
Tanin turned, fixing him with a stare so cold it made him shiver. “So there is trouble in the Northern Kingdom.”
Inwardly, Arc berated himself for revealing anything to her. He wasn’t supposed to make mistakes—not with his words. He was a Politician. He needed to do better than that if he wanted to face off with Darion over Ed’s life.
“Is it the girl? Or something else?” she asked, tilting her head. “Resistance from Gorman? Don’t tell me that old bat Abiye is immune to your charms.”
Arcadimon couldn’t help being impressed. She was good, or her spies were good. No wonder she’d been made Director straight out of her Apprenticeship.
But all those problems were already on their way to being resolved.
And the one problem that remained was between him and Ed alone.
I love him. I can’t kill him.
Arcadimon smiled more broadly. “You think a lot about the girl, don’t you? I suppose that’s why you sent three ships to fetch her.”
Tanin was quick to cover her surprise, but Arcadimon was also quick enough to see it.
“Someone should have told you,” he continued. “One ship arrived yesterday.”
Her voice wavered. “Only one?”
“You’re lucky the Director gave you that much, after what you did.”
Tanin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m grateful for the Director’s generosity. After all, he gives very little.” She advanced on him so suddenly he flinched. At this show of weakness, she smiled, and it was not kind. “So tell me, Detano, what are you flying off so quickly to ask him for?”
She blinked.
She was going to use the Sight on him.
Quickly, Arcadimon took stock of his appearance. H
e’d changed out of his bloodstained clothes. He’d washed his hands and face. There were no marks to betray him or what had transpired in the royal chambers, when he’d decided to save Eduoar’s life.
Were there?
Tanin’s gaze traveled to his sleeve, and his stomach sank.
The stray thread, like a question mark, curling from the cuff of his sleeve. He’d been pulling at it in Eduoar’s room while they discussed the assassination.
And even though neither he nor the king had said it aloud, reading that moment, Tanin knew.
I love him. I can’t kill him.
Arcadimon saw it in her eyes, her triumphant smile.
“Sentiment makes fools of us all,” she whispered, blinking again to dispel the Sight. “But if there’s one thing Stonegold lacks, it’s sentiment.”
Arc ducked around her, edging along the wall toward the portal. “It’s not sentiment to keep Eduoar alive. It’s strategy.” His words sounded small and naive, even to himself. He’d never convince Darion like this.
Tanin shrugged. “I loved once. Lon and Mareah. I loved them dearly, and when they left I had to choose: love or duty. You’ll have to choose one day too, Detano—your Master or your King, your mission or your heart—as all of us fools must do.”
Arcadimon swallowed as his back struck the portal’s gilded frame. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I thought that’s what you were going to do.” She smiled again, thin as her scar, more menacing than a poisoned blade. “But if you’re having second thoughts, your secret’s safe with me.”
Turning, he fled through the mirror, her hoarse laughter following on his heels.
CHAPTER 32
The Dead Were All He Saw
After the battle, Archer dreamed of Versil—the slack jaw, splatters of rain on his white patches of skin—and of Kaito—the lightning in his green eyes, the anger, the betrayal, how his expression changed once Archer drew his gun.
The fear. The complete lack of surprise.
“He didn’t look surprised,” Archer said once, staring across the tent at Sefia, curled up on Kaito’s cot. “Everyone looks surprised. But not him.”
At first, when he nightmared, she tried to comfort him, tried to curl around him and stroke his hair, but he’d pull away. He’d turn his back. So now, night after night, she watched him dream from the other side of the tent. Watched him thrash and wake and dream again.
He dreamed of the fountain of blood and the way Kaito’s head went back.
“How many times can you kill your brother?”
Sefia said nothing. They both knew the answer—five, ten, twenty, as many times as it took for the sun to rise, to chase the dreams away.
And she stayed with him, in Kaito’s cot, hoping her presence was enough to let him know that he was not alone.
In the morning, the rain returned, sweeping over the grasslands in gentle, even strokes.
In subdued silence, the bloodletters built their pyres of wood and blackrock. Sefia collected flowers for Frey, who circled the four bodies they’d wrapped in white linen, weaving clover and thistles into the kindling.
Archer stood beneath the arms of an oak tree, his features distorted by his injuries. Water dripped from his hair and the tips of his ears, and his sodden clothes seemed as ill-fitting as the ones Sefia had stolen for him back in Oxscini.
He was no longer the lost boy from the crate, but he seemed lost without Kaito, without his brother.
When it was time for the funeral, Aljan appeared from his tent with two white spots of paint above the corners of his eyes.
The bloodletters gathered beneath the tree, listening to the whisper of rain on the leaves, the hiss and crackle of the smoking torches.
They patted Aljan on the back. They embraced him and said the comforting words, but when they were done they scuttled away again, their gazes sloughing off their bereaved brother like water.
It was funny, Sefia thought, how your grief could isolate you when it united everyone else. Like tragedy was an explosion, and the closer you were to it, the hotter and whiter you burned, until no one could look directly at you without the risk of being burned themselves.
They didn’t look at Archer either.
Whether it was out of respect or fear or discomfort, Sefia didn’t know.
The bloodletters took turns speaking of Versil’s bravery, his laughter, his jokes. Griegi told them how when they were prisoners, Versil had fed them stories: “Sometimes he’d talk all night. He’d tell us jokes, nursery rhymes, anything to give us something to hold on to, something to nourish us . . .”
They talked about Kaito too—his ferocity, his loyalty, his leadership—and when it seemed like no one else had anything to add, they all turned to Archer.
At first he said nothing. His face, bruised and patched as it was, remained impassive.
Sefia almost stepped forward, but after a moment he straightened. His gaze traveled over the bloodletters, the corpses on the funeral biers, finally coming to rest on Kaito—or what had once been Kaito.
“He was my brother, and I loved him.” Archer’s voice splintered. “Even at the end.”
Sefia found his hand, tracing the bandages, the scabbed knuckles.
Aljan stepped forward. Drops of water ran down his forehead, over the white paint at the corners of his brows, as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
Sefia caught a glimpse of black marks, maybe an S, but Aljan didn’t read the letter. Leaning across the top of the bier, he tucked the piece of paper into the folds of cloth that swaddled his brother’s body—a painting, a message, a secret.
Taking a torch, the mapmaker touched the flame to the funeral pyre.
“We were dead,” Frey said, “but now we rise.”
As if on some unspoken signal, the bloodletters crossed their arms and bowed their heads.
Archer did not.
He wandered over the cliffs toward the sea, where he stood on the edge with his hands in his pockets, watching the Artax rock gently at its mooring.
Sefia joined him a short time later. “We can’t keep hunting impressors, not after this,” she said.
“What else can we do?” His voice was raw.
“Run.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Roku, maybe.” With its sulfurous volcanic shores, the littlest of the island kingdoms, in the deep south, might be remote enough. The Guard might take years to find them there.
Archer glanced at her. “You once told me no one goes to Roku.”
“We could be the first.” She managed a faint smile. “No one’s stopping us. The others could come with us, if they wanted.”
A journey to Roku wasn’t what the Book had shown her. But the Book was a fickle oracle, and couldn’t be trusted.
Maybe there was a reason they weren’t together in the future. Maybe violence and revenge were the glowing core of their relationship, and when that was scooped out, everything they had built together would collapse.
She’d been over Archer’s future again and again, but she couldn’t be sure exactly when he’d return to Jocoxa. Maybe he’d return home in a few years, not a few weeks.
And maybe the him the Book had told her to let go of wasn’t Archer at all. Maybe it was someone else.
Maybe once they parted, they’d find each other again.
“Roku, huh?” Archer said, interrupting her thoughts. He seemed so tired. Maybe he, like her, was tired of fighting too.
“Why not?”
His fingers found the crystal at his neck. “Roku it is, then,” he murmured.
• • •
It was a strange time in camp.
Despite their victories, there was less an air of celebration than of sadness and uncertainty. Archer gave instructions to Scarza, his new second-in-command, to deliver
the prisoners to the nearest town, and most of the bloodletters, needing something to occupy them, went along.
“When are you going to tell them we’re stopping?” Sefia asked.
“Soon,” was all Archer said.
At night, he dreamed. He woke. He looked for her in the darkness. He dreamed. He woke. He said little.
“I wish I was someone else,” he whispered once. “Someone better. If I was someone else, maybe Kaito would still be alive.”
Turning to face him, Sefia tucked her hands beneath her cheek. “I don’t want anyone else.”
During the day, Archer began to work on the Artax, preparing for the voyage south. His first move was to toss the whips and weapons of Serakeen’s pirates overboard, where their instruments of torture sank into the sea.
Sefia joined him. It was nice to work beside him again, like they used to do on the Current of Faith. Together they washed the decks, scouring the bloodstains until the brushes turned red.
Once Archer scrubbed so hard, he wore the bristles down to nubs. Sefia had to take the brush out of his quivering hands and straighten his fingers, one at a time, from their gnarled positions.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be.”
Every so often, when he was working, Archer sat up and looked around. Then his eyes would harden, and he’d return to the work again.
Although he didn’t say so, Sefia suspected he kept forgetting Kaito was dead, kept looking for him, kept having to remind himself.
He’d killed Kaito.
When Scarza returned from town with the rest of the bloodletters, they took up the work too. They painted the Artax, obliterating Serakeen’s yellow-and-black with a pattern of red and white.
Aljan renamed the ship the Brother.
“You’ve got to tell them we’re finished with the mission,” Sefia kept telling Archer.