Page 74 of Angel in Absentia
“Clea,” he said, “there is no guarantee you’re a victim of this at all, and even then, destruction doesn’t always mean death. It doesn’t have to be bad.”
“It’s orchestrated by cien. It’s a vice,” she pushed. “It has to be bad.”
“Okay, fine,” he consented. “Bad, but not horrible. It doesn’t mean your entire city will collapse, the world will catch fire, and everything you love will crumble into dust. Look,” he said, “once, there was a leader among the Insednians. She was a powerful Venennin, determined to become the best swordsman in the tribe. I saw her sword work and I was absolutely convinced. I wanted to give her every opportunity to prove herself, so I arranged a tournament. She fought and fought, and I brimmed with pride at her victories, and then both of her arms were lopped off. As soon as that happened, it was like I woke up from a dream,” he said, lifting a hand instructively as if reliving the moment. “I realized, looking back on her demonstrations, that she clearly wasn’t the best! As soon as she lost her arms, the illusion lifted, and I realized it was my vice at work all along. See?”
Clea stared at him in horror.
“Clea, her arms grew back,” he said. “That’s all she lost.”
“Mine don’t!” she shouted back at him. “And Prince claimed that no one has ever beaten this?”
“Of course, they have. There have been plenty of times I thought people would be great at something, I fed into it, and theyeventually proved me wrong on their own without terrible things happening. I’ve also seen plenty of people pursue dreams that came to fruition and I helped them.”
Clea nodded, calming down significantly. “Okay,” she whispered.
“And if they fail, the destruction is only as bad as the dream was big. You’re a rather content person in general, aren’t you? What massive ambitions keep you up at night that the destruction could be so severe?”
“Well,” she started, irritated again, “perhaps the happiness of my city and its survival?”
“Ah.” He grimaced. “Yes, okay, that, but that’s been secured, and look around. Nothing is on fire.”
“Yet! ” she cried. “And considering you believe the lie too, I clearly can’t trust your judgment on this. By cien, it’s your vice.” She shook her head in frustration.
“Yes, I know, I’m constantly disappointed by it,” Ryson replied. “Do you know how many times I hoped for something and it ended up—” He stopped short.
“What?” she urged, stepping closer to him, “Destroyed? Dead? Decimated?”
He grimaced as if he couldn’t deny any of the options. This seemed to be a rather painful conversation for him to have.
She rubbed her face. “Prince was right. We’re ensnared in it. Your attentions are a death sentence, and they’re focused on me and my entire city.”
“Look, I’ve done my best to be a constructive force, but I’ve never hidden that it wasn’t exactly my strong suit. I’ve warned you since the beginning.”
She sighed. He wasn’t wrong. “When I saved your life, I knew perhaps it would be a challenge, that we came from different worlds, but I thought of difficult personalities and occasional spats, not the collapse of kingdoms and the wellness of myself and everyone I love.”
“I think you’re overthinking it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Clearly, someone needs to, because apparently, you’re an explosive with no sense of its own combustion. I have to overthink it because you are a Venennin completely subject to his vices, and the chance of you lifting a finger”—she mirrored the movement—“and saying, ‘You know, Princess, the only reason I think you could be a good ruler is because secretly, you ruling means your city blows up, so look out for that’ is very slim, if not impossible.”
“You’ve never believed yourself fit to rule anyway. There is no way you’d delude yourself into thinking that. I think you’re a perfectly adequate ruler, good when you want to be,” he argued back. “That example is a bit dramatic.”
“The fall of the Belgears was dramatic!”
“Because the Lord of the Belgear was a dramatic man. Not to mention, I was also doing you a favor, which by the way, I still have yet to receive any kind of thanks,” he replied. “Look at it this way. This ultimately means the power is all in your hands.”
“Yes, you’ll just be quietly, and completely well-meaningly, nudging me toward the most destructive options,” she mumbledand then something dawned on her. She looked up at him, inspecting him fully now. “So, am I to understand that this means that the Warlord of Shambelin is actually, in a lot of ways, very well-meaning?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.”
“History has you very wrong,” she replied flatly. “You’ve been destroying the world with the best of intentions?”
“And damned to do that as long as I breathe air. Quite typical for most people though, actually. Trust me,” Ryson replied.
“Your attentions are a death sentence, and they’re focused on me and my entire city,” she repeated. “By cien, youloveme.”
They both stood there obstinately until time softened the space between them. For the first time, she truly believed it. Their connection was real, and just as real were the probable consequences.
“I do suppose,” she started reluctantly, “that perhaps a small thank you is in order.” He tilted his head with a light and pleased curiosity. “Alkerrai,” she added, and he sighed.
