Finally, as I come to the end of the Gallery, I find the portrait I came here to see. It’s the reason I’ve never come here before.
I look at the intricate detail of the arched window in the background and the gilded gold edges of the frame, just to avoid having to look at them. Like gazing directly into the sun, my eyes refuse to do it. I have to force myself.
Bear is the easiest to look at, so I look at him first. He’s only about three or four in the portrait, a chubby child with an enormous smile. Beside him is our father, King Cassel, and then Alexi, five years old, serious even then. And finally Queen Kyra, our mother. She was a nobody once, like me. She made a name for herself when she plucked a blueflower from the dreaded seas of the Empty Moon. She was an adventurer, she fell in love, she accidentally killed a queen, and somewhere in her story, she became the woman she is today. I don’t know who that woman is. I’m afraid sometimes that I’ll never know her, not really.
Mother. The word I sometimes say in my sleep.
They’re bathed in soft, romantic light in the painting. The perfect family. Beautiful, proud, and happy. Mine, and not mine. I am not on these walls.
Let them go. Everything I ever wanted from them, everything I ever hoped for, it only ever existed in this portrait. This is the soft, romantic vision I wanted and the one I could never have had. It was always just a portrait in a gallery of ghosts. Let them go.
I turn to the opposite wall of the Gallery and look at the last portrait, of Elvar, Guinne, and Max. Even they seem wrong in paint and water. There’s none of Elvar’s fear and courage, none of Guinne’s kindness and ambition. Where’s the king who is terrified of shadows, yet fights for his throne anyway? Where’s the queen who cast two children out of their home to keep her crown, yet opened that home to a hundred other children? And Max, the thief prince, who charts wars across the stars for his father’s sake and hides in a tower to make birds out of features and wire. Where is he?
Where is he?
I turn slowly, portrait after portrait flashing by. Look at them all, the ghosts of the House of Rey. This is my inheritance, my family. Let them go.
Can I? Even now, even after looking these portraits in the eye and recognizing that the family in my heart is about as real and attainable as the one on these walls, I don’t know. When I remember honey cakes and tentative smiles under the yellow trees of Arcadia, when I remember that word I say in my sleep, I don’t feel sure of anything anymore.
They were my beginning and they’ll be my end. Like Amba, who has spent centuries trying to protect the sister who could destroy the world; like the young warrior Ek Lavya, whose love for his teacher was his ruin; like the god Valin, who gave up the stars because he loved a mortal realm; and like my mother, whose love put her on a path to her own destruction. I’m just like them. I can’t walk away from an end of my own making. My choices, my mistakes, my consequences.
There’s no other way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rama and I are playing Warlords. We’re ten years old. He’s not very good, but I have to pretend I’m not very good either, so we’re evenly matched.
“I’m going to ask Father to adopt you,” he says. “Then you can be my real sister.”
Shocked, I open my mouth to tell him the truth about who I am, but I can’t make myself say it. So instead I say, “You can’t do that. You’re a prince. I’m no one.”
“You’re someone to me.”
I lean across the table between us, squish his face in my hands, and kiss his forehead. “That’s very nice, but you still can’t ask your father to adopt me.”
He makes a face at me. I move a chariot on the board. When I look up, he’s seventeen years old. “I was a better brother than Alexi,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
He moves his queen. “Warlock lock,” he says. “I win.”
I check the board. How did he do that?
When I look up, he’s not Rama anymore.
“If you want him back, Esmae,” Alex says, “you know where to find me.”
And then I wake up.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Three days pass. Then a fourth, and a fifth. With each day, it gets harder and harder to be sure Max is still alive.
Nine Blue Knights are imprisoned until it can be proven, one way or another, if they were involved in Max’s capture. Two others die in the attempt to arrest them and I don’t think we’ll ever know if they had any part in it. Kirrin will be upset when he finds out, but I don’t know if he’ll retaliate; maybe, when he recruited his Blue Knights to Alexi’s cause and used them to take Max, he made peace with the likelihood that there would be casualties.
The Hundred and One come back from their usual trips into the city to report that the people of Erys are uneasy and restless. They’re unhappy that Max is missing; they’re upset that two of a god’s devoted followers have died without a trial; they’re worried about what’s next. Kali is a warrior ship, forged by centuries of carving out survival and power in the sky, and our culture has been shaped by the warrior way. Courage, strength, and honor. It’s what we respect above all else, but respect for the warrior way is not the same as respect for war itself.
Fight when you must, not before. That’s the first law of righteous warfare. That’s the first lesson. And the death of two Blue Knights who may have had nothing whatsoever to do with the country’s captured prince doesn’t sit well with anyone. Alexi’s supporters will use it to stoke ill will toward the usurper king, while Elvar’s supporters will defend him as a frightened father. Years of division are about to bear their dark, ugly fruit.
On the other hand, King Yann’s death has had the effect I’d hoped it would. I killed him in cold blood for the sake of my own war as much as for the sake of the ghosts of three dead women, but I am still not sorry. I have no room left for more guilt or regret. Especially not when I see Yann’s daughter take the throne with quiet dignity and announce the end of several of her father’s unpopular policies. Especially not when we hear word from our spies that Alexi’s allies are skittish. Some of them believed him when he sent out a broadcast to insist he had nothing to do with the assassination, but others aren’t quite so certain. After all, the whole world saw footage of him killing Rama in what should have been a simple duel. If he could do that, he could do this, too. And if he could do this, his allies will think, he could do it to me if I make him angry.
He was the darling of the star system, their golden boy. By the time I’m done, he’ll be a ruin.
“We still don’t know where Max is,” Radha says to me. We’re alone in the war room, studying the holographic map of the star system. “Arcadia seems an obvious guess, but they may not have chosen an obvious place. And even if they did, we still don’t know how to get into Arcadia. Do we?”
“No, but that’s my next battle,” I say, staring at the dot that represents Arcadia. “The shield is a problem. The architect Maya Sura said he couldn’t help us get past it, and Titania hasn’t been able to hack it, but there must be a way.”
“Esmae, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but what happens if Max is dead?”
My instinct is to snap that he’s not, but I control myself. It’s not her fault. She’s worried too. Since she came to Kali, her color has come back, her face is fuller, she’s eating, and she looks happier. (I think Sybilla has a lot to do with that, but I’ve resisted the urge to say so to either of them.) But she’s different today. Today she seems paler, and she keeps twisting her hands in front of her.
“Radha, what’s the matter? Is this about Max?”
She nods, but she won’t look me in the eye. The Radha I have known most of her life has always been a terrible liar and this Radha is no different.
Before I can press the issue, Sybilla comes in. “Rickard is ill,” she says.
I stare at her in shock. “What?” This wouldn’t be such a surprise if it were anyone else, but Rickard never falls ill. We all assume it has to do with the boon the
gods gifted him, the one that keeps him alive and healthy well past a normal mortal lifespan. If Rickard is ill, it’s because someone caused it.
“He’s okay, mostly. He’s been confined to his bed. Elvar’s orders. It’s a fever, but it won’t come down. The doctors are worried.”
“Poison?” I say, teeth clenched.
“No. They checked.”
“Then he must have been injected with a virus. There’s no way this happened by accident.”
Sybilla’s eyes go wide. “You don’t think Lord Selwyn did this, do you?”
My mind did go straight to Lord Selwyn, who has always resented the influence Rickard has had over Elvar and who is just the kind of man who would use the chaos around Max’s capture to pull a trick of his own, but something’s not quite right. I can’t figure it out at first, but the more I look at Sybilla and Radha, the more it bothers me and then—
Radha doesn’t look surprised.
Anxious, yes. But not surprised. My heart sinks. “I need to go see Rickard,” I say. “You two stay together, okay? Don’t let each other out of your sight and don’t let anyone else get close. Rickard may not be the only target.”
I leave the room and, just as I’d hoped, Sybilla follows in a huff and catches me halfway down the hallway. “What about you?” she demands. “I’ll stay with Radha, but I wish you’d stay, too.”
“Sybilla,” I say very softly, making sure Radha is still inside the war room, “don’t take your eyes off Radha. Don’t let her touch you. Don’t let her touch anyone else. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
There’s a beat. Then Sybilla blinks at me. “No,” she says. “Esmae, no. That’s not possible.”
“Not a word,” I say. “Not until we know for sure.”
I run the rest of the way to Rickard’s suite. He’s propped up in his bed, tired but smiling gently at the doctor speaking to him. His normally rich, dark skin has a pale, sweaty sheen. I stop in the doorway, uncertain. I’ve never seen him like this. His rooms are full of people—Elvar, Guinne, my great-grandmother, and at least a dozen servants and doctors—but Rickard takes one look at my face and says, “Could I have a moment alone with Esmae, please?”
Everyone looks surprised, but no one protests. I’m sure no one feels they can refuse Rickard anything right now.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, I kneel beside the bed and take his hand. It’s so hot. “How bad is it?”
“I think this is as bad as it gets,” he replies. “I’m weak, but not dead.” He raises his free hand, which looks like an effort, and smiles ruefully at the tremors. “You see?”
“Will you get better?”
“No,” says Rickard, gentle but honest. “I don’t think I’ll get worse, but I don’t think I’m supposed to get better either. After all, the best way to punish a warrior is to make sure he can’t be one anymore.”
“You always told me a warrior is made by what’s inside their heart, not their hands.”
“Yes, I did. And it’s true, but I must confess it’s difficult to believe it right now.”
I understand that. He’s Sebastian Rickard, the greatest warrior who ever lived. Teacher of thousands, beloved by gods and mortals alike. He’s so much more than that, but it’s easy to forget the rest. Especially for him. So he’s grieving what’s been taken from him. For my part, I can’t grieve because I can’t believe it. It happened too fast. There was no blaze of glory, no battle. It was quick and quiet, so it’s impossible to take in.
“Don’t look so sad,” Rickard says fondly, “I’m still here. I don’t plan on going anywhere. You’re stuck with me for a long, long time.”
I put my other hand over his. “Good.” Then, because we can’t dance around it forever: “Do you know who did it?”
“Yes,” he says, calmly, “And I think you do, too.”
My chest tightens as my last hope is dashed. “How?”
“I think it was last night. After dinner, Princess Radha asked me to help her with the blanket she’s sewing for the baby her sister is expecting. At some point, as we chatted, I remember her hand slipped and the needle pricked my wrist. I barely noticed at the time, but, well, here we are.”
“You think the needle was poisoned.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“No,” Rickard says, and sorrow settles over his face, “And you will not either. This is the outcome of my own choices, Esmae. I won’t have that child punished for something I know she never wanted to do.”
“You think King Darshan sent her here to do it.” I think of Rama telling me their father had sent Radha on diplomatic work, of Radha’s secrecy when Sybilla asked her about it. Had he sent her away to have her trained for this? “That’s why she really came.”
“Of course he sent her. Why do you think he wanted Alexi to win Titania? Why do you think he built her in the first place? He wanted a weapon so perfect that a boy like Alexi wouldn’t be able to refuse it. That, the gods told him, was how he would see me fall. He wanted me defeated in battle, my glory stripped away, and he wanted Alexi to be the one to do it. He wanted my defeat to come at the hands of my most glorious pupil. Poetic justice.”
“But why? How is this the outcome of your choices? Is this because you wouldn’t teach him years ago? Elvar told me you asked for half of Wychstar as payment for your lessons, to test him, and he balked.”
Rickard shakes his head. “That’s not what happened. That’s what he said when we realized other people had approached and could hear us. I didn’t contradict him. It was convenient to both of us to let people believe his version, but the truth is Darshan came up to me that day to confront me about a terrible hurt.”
I stare at him, struggling to absorb this. King Darshan wanted to punish Rickard, so the gods told him how. And I think I can guess which god. Kirrin. It always comes back to Kirrin, the architect of all of this. Kirrin, who grew fond of the small child Alexi had been and saw a glimpse of that child’s future. A lost crown, a threat to his life, a war. Kirrin, who heard the prayers of an angry, wounded man and saw an opportunity. If all had gone as he’d intended, Alex would have won Titania and taken back his throne. King Darshan would have watched Alex defeat Rickard in battle. Kirrin would have kept the boy he loved safe and seen him to victory, too.
But then I won the competition. I was the wild card, the thing that no one saw coming. So Kirrin had to find another way to help my brother. Darshan had to find another way to destroy Rickard. And he did.
“Radha could have said no,” I say, as tears run down my cheeks. “Look at you! She could have refused to help him do this to you.”
“She could have,” Rickard says, “but I think you of all people know, Esmae, how difficult it is to say no to the person whose love you have longed for all your life.”
I brush my tears away. “What did you do to him?” I ask. “Why would he do all this just to hurt you?”
Rickard turns his face, his eyes far away. “I had a student once. Her name was Ek Lavya.”
“Her name?”
“Yes. You know the stories, of course, but the stories got a great deal wrong. She was a girl.”
My heart goes cold with dread. “If Ek Lavya was your student, then you were the one—”
I can’t say it.
He nods. “Yes. I am the teacher in the stories. I had made a promise, you see. A reckless promise, when I was young and foolish. I promised your great-grandmother Cassela that I would make her the best of her class. Lavya was unexpected. Her raw talent was incredible, and she worked hard. No student of mine has worked as hard as she did. That is, except for you, Esmae. You have often reminded me of her.”
“Don’t say it,” I say. “Please don’t tell me you were so determined to keep your promise to Grandmother that you deliberately hurt Lavya.”
“I regret that I made that promise, but it was one I had to keep nevertheless. I have to be true to my word at all times. You know that better
than anyone, Esmae. I had to diminish Lavya.”
I can’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Did Grandmother know?”
“I think she guessed, when Lavya disappeared, but we have never spoken of it.”
“What happened?”
“In those days, it was common for students to bring their teachers gifts. Lavya came from a poor family, so she had never been able to give me anything. I had never minded, but it had always weighed on her.” Rickard closes his eyes as if he can’t bear the pain of it, but he continues. “So when I told her she could give me a different kind of gift, she didn’t hesitate to promise me anything. I asked for the thumb on her right hand. She smiled as she cut it off, but the stories make it sound like it was a sweet, sad smile. It was not. It was a smile with teeth. She walked away. Ten years later, we heard she had died. Amba told me she had gone to the Night Temple to pray to Ash. After years of prayer and fasting, as she lay dying, Ash appeared and promised she would have her revenge in her next life. Her last words were Make me a man, because girls are too easily broken. Make me a king, because kings do not bow to anyone. And make sure I remember.”
I swallow. Girls are too easily broken. Are we? Or is it just that more people want to break us?
“And Lavya was reborn as Darshan.”
“Yes,” says Rickard. His eyes are open now. “So you see, Esmae? This has been coming to me for a long time.”
I go back to the war room. It’s quiet inside, as if neither Sybilla nor Radha have said a word since I left. As soon as I walk in, tears flood Radha’s eyes and slip down her face. “If I could take it back, I would,” she says to me.
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