by Laura Lam
“You can say it. I didn’t earn my title, not by skill. My sister did. I was only the Spare.”
There we go. Still bitter. He couldn’t escape the echo of being second-best.
“General,” she said, sounding regretful. “I’m—”
“Stop talking,” he interrupted. “Sit. Eat.”
Damocles had always had mercurial moods; his favors came and went on a whim. She needed him upset enough to be desperate to prove himself at the reminder of his sister. Not angry at Zoe for doing the reminding.
So, Eris did the only thing she could do. She shut up and settled in the chair across from him, trying to slow her hammering heart.
Everything tasted even better than she remembered. She forced herself to keep her table manners, but she wanted to scarf the food down. How she’d missed Tholosian soups, silky smooth against her tongue. The feel of tearing into properly cooked meat with a rich sauce. Spreading melting sage butter onto still-warm bread. It was almost too much. She was grateful for the med cuffs that matched Zoe’s outfit. As long as she held the first bite in her mouth for a few seconds, she’d know whether or not it was poisoned.
Damocles watched her, his face betraying nothing until she finished. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness, Zoe.”
Eris almost let out a sigh of relief. The pendulum had swung back. Progress. “It’s all right, General. My thoughtless comment deserved that response.”
“Then why don’t we make up by finishing our game of zatrikion?”
Eris paused, trying to keep her expression steady. Playing with him last time had disarmed her more than she was willing to admit.
The last thing she wanted was that board between them again, but there was no refusing. She forced a smile. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”
Damocles motioned to the guard, who went into the other room and returned with the elaborately carved zatrikion board. Eris kept quiet as Damocles set the board as it had been the last time they played, and they both resumed the game.
“So, you’ve brought the improved schematics with you,” Damocles said, shifting a piece. “I’ll have my engineers reproduce the design and send you payment.”
Eris stole one of his pieces. “Aren’t you going to look at them? Test the weapon?”
She needed him to bring it out—if not to come up with an excuse to take it back under the guise of more improvements required.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”
“You have four royal guards stationed at your door”—another piece was hers—“a legion out the front, and you’ve sent my assistants to another room. So, either you enjoy the presence of military and think my employees are as useless as I do, or you’ve increased security.”
Damocles sat back, a small smile playing on his lips. “Very astute, Zoe.”
“Pirates know a thing or two about security, General. I just thought you might like to verify my work.”
He made a move and took one of her pieces, but she was still winning. “I have every confidence your new schematics are more impressive than your prototype. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”
Eris tried to stay calm. He was confiding in her; that was the important part. “Never,” she said lightly. She took a breath and risked it: “I take it you don’t trust the Evoli to remain peaceful.”
Damocles watched as she made another move on the zatrikion board. “What would you say if I signed the truce and didn’t honor it?”
And there it was. Damocles, you’re still so easy, Eris thought.
“I’m a mere merchant, General. My opinion matters little.” When his expression made clear that he expected her opinion regardless, Eris gave an answer that made her sick to her stomach: “If my weapons killed every last Evoli, I’d lose no sleep. For the glory of Tholos, and you as its future Archon. My loyalty is to you.”
Eris hated saying it. Zoe, both the dead one and Eris’s alias, would not have cared. She hated this part she had to play in degrading people from another Empire, and she hated how convincing it sounded. Because Eris had been taught her entire life that their lives didn’t matter, that the Evoli were necessary sacrifices to keep the God of Death sated.
But Eris also knew that her brother’s self-worth came from loyalty, from being seen as deserving of his place. The flare of satisfaction in his eyes was proof.
“And if they were the Evoli Oversouls?”
“I would be the first to congratulate you on your new conquest,” Eris replied.
So, it wasn’t just a coup. Rhea had guessed right: he planned to assassinate the Oversouls. The weapon could fire blasts but also disperse gas projectiles. It’d work with pressurized ichor. The weapon wasn’t large. It would be easy enough to hide. He still had three, maybe four shots left before Ariadne’s failsafe kicked in.
Eris anticipated Damocles’s next moves the way she would in the game before them: he only needed an excuse to go to Laguna, get close enough to target one person—perhaps the Oversoul, or even just a straggler celebrating the truce. Hit them from afar. It might not even hurt. That poor Evoli would stagger into another, perhaps a bystander looking to help. Diseases spread so easily that way. No one would know that all it took was one projectile in a weapon.
Damocles’s gaze flickered up to hers as he stole another one of her pieces. “Have you ever seen copies of the restricted Old World books in the Ancient Library?” At her confused expression, he explained. “Before my grandfather perfected the Oracle’s programming influence on all Tholosian citizens, some of the ancient texts were digitally copied and smuggled out of that library on data storage units. Literary pirates,” he added, leaning in as if to tell a secret. “There’s a reward for every copy found, of course, but a few of those texts still remain in circulation. I suspect they were acquired by the Novantae to inspire their pathetic little band of rebels.”
He was right, of course. Kyla acquired every book she could find on those rare old data units. Literature had been restricted since the second Archon spread the Tholosian Empire far beyond that which his father had acquired, and that emperor ruled ruthlessly. Information was carefully controlled, and literature became relegated to a single library and accessed only by those approved by the royal family. The Archon’s thinking was that if you controlled what people read, you could control their ideas.
After the Oracle was designed, and One’s program was downloaded into the brains of every lower citizen of the Empire, there was little need for such a heavy ruling hand. Only a few were born with the natural resistance to buck programming—those like Kyla and Sher, and every child born with the potential to become the next Archon—but a vast majority of citizens would never, ever pick up a book to read it.
Because the Oracle had programmed them so it would never occur to them that they could.
Eris laughed, as if the idea of reading was ridiculous to her. “Of course not,” she told him. Then, she quoted the Oracle’s programming: “‘There is no purpose to be found in books that cannot otherwise be discovered in the role you were born to fulfill.’ I was born in a merchant’s cohort, General. Weapons are a passion the God of Death has given me.”
Though there was no outward sign of it, she almost felt as if her answer had disappointed him. He moved his zatrikion figure—the Commandant—and took one of her pieces. They were tied. His skill had improved.
Angry with herself for being distracted, Eris nabbed her Soldier piece and took one of his. Damocles didn’t appear the least bit bothered.
“Well, allow me to tell you a story from one of those books,” he said, considering his next move. “It was an Old World religious text, revered by a faction of our early ancestors before the First Plague came to Tholos and wiped out nearly every family except the Archon’s. This fable had a parallel, you see. It was about a man named Leonis who was very close to his God, and he alone could see the corrupt
ion and violence that had overtaken his people. Leonis’s God instructed him to build a ship, in which those he cared for would be spared from his deity’s inevitable wrath. Leonis and his family left that planet; their God set fire to the world He created. Leonis’s family alone were given a new planet—our Old World. They became God’s new children, our first ancestors.”
Eris stared at Damocles, trying not to let her alarm show as he shared that tale with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. What was he doing? She tried to decipher his meaning, his next move, but it was like a puzzle missing pieces. She cleared her throat. “That’s an interesting story. I—”
“I’m not planning a battle. Think of this as me picking my chosen. I am burning everything to ash to re-forge the Tholosian Empire anew.” His eyes met hers as he moved his final piece across the board and knocked over her queen. “King kills Queen, Discordia.”
Adrenaline sang through her veins.
“Discordia?” Eris gave him a bemused look. Beneath the table, her hands gripped the chair to force herself to remain seated. Damocles’s soldiers were still by the door; she wasn’t getting out of there without a fight. “General, as flattering as that is, I’m—”
“Enough games,” Damocles snapped. “There are a dozen guards stationed outside that door, and more ready to kill your friends. You lose, Discordia.”
Not yet. She didn’t lose until the God of Death took her to Avern.
“How did you know?” The words sounded calmer than she felt. How could she be so stupid?
Ariadne’s voice sounded in her head:
Damocles rose slowly, his expression even, almost bored. “Oh, I’ve known since before our first little meeting.”
Before? But how could . . . Her gaze fell to the game board, the pieces scattered. Of course. Of course. If Nova was compromised . . . “You killed the Novan spies. But you kept my Zoe identity intact, didn’t you?”
“The important spies, yes. Enough to ensure they’d assign you to investigate as Zoe. I figured you’d have to bring me an impressive toy to maintain your cover, but that weapon?” He let out an awed breath. “A pleasant bonus that you solved Project Harpy for me. It really is magnificent.”
Eris stepped back to keep her distance from him.
“Now, your new friends were a surprise,” he said, circling her. “Nyx, Rhea, and the little one. They might have escaped if they hadn’t met up with you. I think I’ll take Rhea back after I punish her. She’s mine, after all.”
Eris felt sick. “You let us infiltrate the palace and find those files on Ismara, didn’t you?”
His eyes gleamed, as if he were proud of this, proud of outsmarting her in this competition they’d had since childhood. “Come on, Discordia.” He clicked his tongue. “You didn’t really think you all got this far without me letting you? Without the Oracle being tipped off?” Eris tried to hold back her flinch, but he saw it. “Oh, you did. That’s cute.”
Eris went still with dread as the trill of alarms sounded through the palace. Ariadne and Nyx were on the run. Could they make it?
“Where did you get your information?” Eris asked her brother. Was the Oracle just that deep? Had One infiltrated Novantae’s systems? Or was there someone in Nova giving him information?
“Not important,” Damocles said with a wave of his hand. “What’s important is that I have you, I have your weapon, and I have your intent to ignore the truce and slaughter the Evoli on record. Everything that happens now can be traced back to you and the Novantae.”
Eris dove for an antique vase. She grasped the handle, swung, and slammed it into Damocles’s face. His guards rushed her, their Mors raised. Eris dodged one blast. Two. She punched a guard in the jaw. Bones cracked beneath her fist, his nose gushed blood. The other launched himself at her, but she lashed out with her ring—one quick swipe across the neck. Dead, bleeding out on the floor.
Damocles was up. He swiped the blood from his face. “You’re still quick.”
“You’re still slow. Might as well call your other guards in and give me a real challenge.”
“They know I want this for myself. Test me, Discordia.”
Eris and Damocles went for each other, blocking and punching and kicking. Eris had forgotten what it was like to fight against someone in the royal cohort. All the Archon’s children had been built for speed, for strength, for the damage their bodies could take. They crashed into furniture, breaking and splintering wood. Eris threw her brother into the table, and that glorious display of food toppled to the floor. Eris shattered a glass bottle and swiped at him. Damocles dodged, smacking her hard in the face with a metal tray.
Stars exploded in Eris’s vision. Warm blood trickled from her nose. The ringing in her ears only made the palace alarms seem to blare louder. What were Ariadne and Nyx doing? Would they survive?
Focus. Get up, get up!
“It’s better this way, sister.” Damocles hit her. Again and again, until Eris’s knees buckled. “I’ll be a great Archon when Father dies.”
He kicked her in the stomach. Eris’s breath left in a whoosh and she spat blood on the floor. Her sight was blurry as she crawled away from him. Weaponless. That stupid dress let glass cut her legs, the palms of her hands.
Get. Up.
His booted toe caught her under her chin. Eris heard the snap of her jaw dislocating. Pain made her vision go black around the edges.
To someone else, Damocles snapped, “Find out what the fuck is going on out there.” Retreating footsteps.
Ariadne. Nyx.
Clo’s voice, echoing in her mind.
As the darkness closed in, she felt Damocles’s fingers lift her face. “I hope they tell stories about us, hundreds of years in the future.” Then a whisper in her ear: “I’m going to be the hero in all of them, Discordia. And you’ll be the villain.”
44.
ARIADNE
Present day
The soldiers crashed through the door.
Nyx grasped Ariadne roughly by the arm and shoved her onto the floor. She leaped onto one of the soldiers guarding them, slamming her fist into his face as she stole his Mors.
Morsfire blared in the small room as Nyx shot the soldiers in quick succession. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three dead. One blast each to the head.
Ariadne remained frozen on the floor. Nyx was so fast. So fast. Ariadne couldn’t move. The echoes of Mors blasts rattled in her mind and it was too much bang bang bang bang—
“Get up.” Nyx’s grip was gentler as she dragged Ariadne to her feet. With a hand on either side of her face, she forced Ariadne to look at her. “I need you to keep moving. When I say get behind me, you get behind me. When I say run, you run. Understand?”
The alarms clamored through the palace. Ariadne flinched. So much noise, too much noise, too much too much. She wanted to scream. At any moment, the royal guards would be there to arrest them. Nyx would be executed. Ariadne would be taken back to the Temple.
Ariadne froze. They were going to be trapped. She was goin
g to be under the Oracle’s eye again, and this time, she’d never make it out. This time—
“Ariadne.” Nyx shook her shoulders. “Do you understand?” Ariadne nodded jerkily. Nyx shoved her forward. “Then let’s go.”
Nyx opened the door and peeked out. All clear.
Ariadne would have frozen again if not for Nyx propelling her forward. Clo knew. She knew that Eris was Princess Discordia this whole time. The fight on Ismara—
Nyx’s hold on Ariadne tightened.
Ariadne was shocked, but Nyx sounded furious. As a soldier, Ariadne knew Nyx hated surprises and hated secrets among her friends. Ariadne felt the same: If plan A fell through, then plans B, C, D, through Z shouldn’t come with finding out one of your colleagues was a dead princess who was once more brutal than her own brother. Contingency plans were difficult enough; they were downright impossible with lies.
Ariadne thought as Nyx dragged her out of the room.
Out in the hallway, the alarms were almost deafening. Soldiers rounded the corner from the main stairwell and opened fire. Nyx shoved Ariadne behind her and kicked a hallway table over for cover. Delicate vases shattered to the floor around them. Ariadne cringed. Too loud. Too messy. She couldn’t think.
“Eighteen soldiers,” Nyx said to Ariadne. “Count my blasts.”
“W— Why?”
“Keeps me motivated.”
No. Nyx was trying to keep Ariadne distracted. Ariadne felt a surge of gratitude.
Nyx whirled, steadied her gun against the table edge, and fired off at a rapid pace. One. Two. Three. Ariadne counted the blasts, focusing on the numbers, the feel of the words formed by lips and tongue.
