Page 111 of Vilest Things
Anton grimaces. “We might not want to know the answer to that. How do we get in?”
Calla considers the matter of brute force. It would be straightforward enough to march right through, to push back anyone who comes toward her. Still, as she rises carefully, she recalls Yilas making contact, what she said about the Crescent Societies. If there is something expected of her here, she doesn’t want to be making a greeting from the very front of the palace.
“I know a way in.” Calla tilts her head left, around the coliseum and into the alleys. “Follow me.”
The back alleys are quiet. Either the people have evacuated, or they are unmoving inside their apartments. Even the rats have stopped scampering around the trash bags. Nothing moves when Calla kicks aside some particularly bulky ones, clearing the space in front of the hidden door.
She doesn’t know what Matiyu’s identity number is, or any other number that should activate the panel to open the emergency passage, but the moment she touches the keypad, she finds it is unnecessary. The panel has been unplugged and hangs from the wall off a half-broken wire. Confused, Calla prods the door, and it opens on its own.
This passage was used for entry to attack the palace.
Calla steps in first, grimacing at the puddle her foot dips into. Anton is close behind; he attempts to close the door after him and finds the lock doesn’t click anymore.
“Where are we going?”
“Throne room,” Calla answers. Her original objective was greeting the cities from the throne room balcony. Seeing the state of the palace, she supposes their destination doesn’t change. If there is any objective to an attack on the palace while its monarch has left, it is in the throne room.
They emerge from the passage. South wing. The throne room is close, but she doubts the palace will stay behaved through their entire route.
She’s mistaken.
The first people they come across halt instantly. They stare, in the manner of a child caught with their hand in the candy jar rather than a threatening anarchist cult. Anton tries to ask what has happened, but Calla tugs him to keep moving. There are crescent moons tattooed on the inside of their elbows. As strange as the situation is, the Crescent Society members simply leave them be when Calla and Anton turn the corner. They proceed onward. Up the stairs and down the stairs. Through the smoky halls and around the shattered chandeliers.
It appears they may be in the clear to approach the atrium into the throne room, but another group awaits, lined up vigilantly. Calla braces. Her hand flies up, prepared to counter an attack.
But they do the opposite.
The Crescent Society members see her, and they drop to their knees.
“What the fuck,” Anton says, “is going on?”
Silently, Calla continues onward, making sure Anton stays in her periphery. Her hands flex at her sides. They proceed through the line of Crescents, passing under the arch of the throne room entrance. Without any sound to her steps, Calla enters to find the throne room charred with the remnants of an explosion, vases shattered, and paintings dragged off the walls. The remaining councilmembers in San-Er have been gathered here. Ten people, Calla counts in her cursory inspection. She sights Mugo and Farua. No Venus Hailira. Perhaps Venus has already been killed.
No one in the room has noticed her entry yet. They’re too busy watching a man pull Councilmember Farua from the circle and situate her in the middle of the room and onto her knees. He draws his sword. A crescent moon engraving decorates the blade.
“Stand down,” Calla says.
At once, those surrounding the man whip their gazes over, locking onto Calla. The man, however, pays her no attention. He raises his sword high with both hands.
“I said”—Calla throws her arm out and flings the man and his sword alike into the wall, pressed tight without any chance of movement—“stand down.”
He strains. He can’t move. Only then does he look properly at Calla, and his brows fly up. The outer halves have been shaved off, the inner halves dyed white. It gives him a stronger appearance of shock when he states, “Calla Tuoleimi.”
A morning breeze floats in from the open balcony. Its curtain drifts up and down, and ever casual, Anton strides over to push it aside so that the fabric isn’t billowing at every moment. The room has utterly stilled. Then, just as the people outside did, the Crescent Society members fall to their knees, one by one by one. There is no opposition here.
And Calla can’t help but wonderwhy.
“I want everyone to behave,” she says. The instructions come as though someone else is delivering them. As though the original princess whispers in her ear, temporarily taking over with the right decisions. She knows that she is conscious, that she is the one present here, but it is easier to separate herself. Easier in the same way she detached herself when she was raising her sword to her parents.
Slowly, Calla releases the man from the wall. He staggers to regain his balance. The room quiets.
Then Councilmember Mugo lurches forward, breaking from the circle they have ordered him into.
“What is this?” he hisses. “Where is His Majesty?”
“Incapacitated,” Calla answers.
Mugo thins his lips. His gaze flickers to the door. Behind him, the other councilmembers are shifting slowly, waiting to take his example, waiting to see if this is their moment to escape. Calla can’t let him leave. The moment he raises his generals, they’re going to march on San-Er. Eigi is too close to be risking that kind of funny business.
