Page 101 of Vilest Things
The journey passes in a blindfolded blur. There are no more attacks—nary the slightest threat of danger from the kingdom outside, and Anton knows he’s not the only one who finds that strange. He keeps feeling someone stomp on his toes every time the guards say something to mark their location. Calla, no doubt. Or maybe it’s Galipei trying to throw him off, since he’s riding in the same carriage to ensure there aren’t any plans being exchanged. He’s with them at every moment, even to use the bathroom.
Anton chatters meaninglessly every time a thought occurs to him, but Calla remains dead silent. No one in the carriage pays him any mind. He doesn’t knowwhat Calla is thinking. Whether she has something up her sleeve, because Anton sure as fuck has nothing.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” August declared when they were being loaded into the carriages in Rincun. “We’re going to return to San-Er. You’re going to take full responsibility for your misdeeds, and then you will await decision by the council. Don’t even think about trying anything, because I’ll burn both your birth bodies at the slightest provocation.”
He didn’t leave room for argument. August turned on his heel coldly, asking for the guards to hurry it up. The proclamation was comically performative anyway, meant for the benefit of the guards that surrounded them. What did it matter what the council’s decision was? August was trying to get rid of the councilmembers, anyhow. Eventually, what was left of the council would descend into such shambles that King August could smoothly take over, becoming the one voice that the generals and soldiers answered to.
With every province they cross, Anton gets more and more restless. He likes to have a way out. In exile, survival meant constantly flitting off one burned bridge to another made of kindling. Even if it was a temporary path out, it was better than nothing.
Right now, he really has nothing. He doesn’t have a shred of power. He has lost the body to play king. He has lost control over the masses, lost the right to click his fingers and be brought anything under the skies. Meanwhile, it takes one snap of August’s temper, and Anton’s head rolls.
It doesn’t seem fair. August isn’t even afraid of the dangers of keeping Anton alive; he makes no reference to wanting to kill him in punishment. August would, in fact, prefer to keep Anton alive to report to San-Er, to parade him around like some scampering rat caught eating in the back kitchen because he can reclaim the control that Anton took from him. Even if August has the inkling that Anton knows who was responsible for the attack in Kelitu, he doesn’tcare. He is August Shenzhi, with a kingdom operating under his thumb, and Antonis barely a Makusa anymore when there is no one else of his bloodline to make Makusa feel like anything more than a name.
A sudden, hard stomp comes on his toes, and Anton jolts. They are on day five of a journey that doesn’t break for sleep. The drivers simply alternate with guards who take the reins when they grow too tired to go on. By nightfall, they will have reached San-Er.
Anton shifts his foot, tapping Calla back to ask what the matter is. He tries to imagine what life might look like if the council decides to pardon them and condemn him back to exile. With criminal status, Anton might pick up a small cult following amid the Crescent Societies, in the same way that many of them like to rewatch Calla’s massacre footage every year as a holiday treat. Otherwise, the rest of his days will pass in relative insignificance.
It isn’t as though the past seven years have had much significance either. Only an endless cycle of cobbling together money and making payments month after month to sustain a hospital bed. Otta needed him, though, and that’s more than he can say at present. Without her, he’s untethered.
Heavens knows that he’ll never be tethered to her again. From what he overheard, August left guards behind to sweep the borderlands, but there hasn’t been news on whether she’s been found yet. Otta has disappeared.
Calla nudges his ankle, and Anton heightens his focus. Someone has answered a phone in the carriage. Though the words on the other end are inaudible, offering only a buzzy, low murmur outside the receiver, the carriage turns tense. Conversation on the opposite seats has died down. The other guards are waiting for the result of the call.
A button clicks.
It is the final plunge of an executioner’s injection. The lock being turned in an eternal prison cell. Anton doesn’t understand why Calla hasn’t made a grab for Talin’s throne. Princess Calla Tuoleimi, who—as far as Talin is aware—has as much claim to that crown as August does. Perhaps more. This Calla who sitsbound with him claims to believe in what is good, but she didn’t chase Otta into the borderlands out of concern for her civilians. She did it because Otta was making a power grab that she didn’t care for, and she must realize someone who can fight a maneuver like that can also make one herself. She must realize that the two of them don’t need to live byAugust—
The carriage stops.
“What’s going on?” Anton demands, in perfect synchrony with Calla.
“There’s some trouble in San-Er,” Galipei replies, not sounding the least bit concerned. “We are making a stop in Eigi’s security base overnight, until the disruption passes.”
Anton scoffs. Bydisruption, he must mean people are once again marching on their streets, calling for an end to this rule.
“You don’t want to get back quickly?” he goads. “I wonder if the threat has grown too big to contain.”
Galipei is unfazed. Outside of August’s body, nothing Anton says will prompt any reaction out of the guard, because Galipei Weisanna does not care about the opinions of anyone other than August Shenzhi.
“Stay put.”
Movement flurries around them, guards streaming forth from the carriages and barking orders outside. Anton is sitting still—obediently, disgustingly—when a new set of steps climbs into the carriage. The door slams shut.
“If we’re going to do this”—Calla’s voice is a shock to hear, scratchy from uttering her first full sentence since they left Rincun—“can you at least take off our blindfolds?”
“Take them off yourselves,” August returns. “They loosened one hand, didn’t they?”
Anton doesn’t wait for the next opportunity. He pulls the fabric from his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust. This borrowed body has long hair, and it gets all over his face. While he’s gathering himself and brushing everything back,Calla is slow to remove her blindfold, easing it off as though she might be told halfway to stop.
Their eyes meet. Calla scrunches up the fabric and throws it to the floor. Without her yellow color, he doesn’t know who else would believe that this is Calla, short of knowing her habits. Her bitten thumbnails and her chafed lower lip. Her instinct to stare awhile before answering a question, taking more time to read someone’s expression than socially acceptable.
“I’m not happy, August,” Calla says. She tugs her wrist, pulling taut the rope that connects her to the seats. “If you must act tough in front of your guards, fine. But I’ve been on your side from the beginning, and I should think that warrants more trust than being tied to a carriage.”
“That trust dissipated the second you realized Anton Makusa was occupying my body and didn’t kick him out,” August returns. “Apologies if you feel that it isn’t fair.”
“She tried, don’t worry,” Anton interjects. “It’s not her fault I wanted the throne.”
August turns his glare on Anton now. “Where did you think this was going to end? That no one would notice? Impossible.”
