Page 28 of Vilest Things
“Oh, did you want me to turn it on?”
Leida scoffs. “You can’t, anyway. Heat systems in the palace switched to electric a decade ago.”
Most of San-Er outside the palace still uses radiators. There are always a few apartment fires each year from faulty pipes and overheating.
“You must have observed the palace systems closely in your time as captain of the guard,” Calla muses. She crosses her arms over her chest, hiding the reddened scratches from their struggle. “After they made me a royal advisor, I happened upon a file in the surveillance room that detailed your mother’s work too. Lots of changes. Also lots of suggestions that went ignored.”
Leida yanks against the curtain cord again. It doesn’t budge. Calla has tied the knot tight enough that she herself couldn’t undo it.
“Is that a surprise?” Leida says shortly. “No one in this palace cares about what is good.”
Calla claimed to want the greater good once. In Anton’s kitchen, when he asked why she was playing in the king’s games, it seemed as fitting an answer as any. She wanted to get rid of everyone who had caused her suffering; she wanted dead bodies made of the nobles who ruled this kingdom, who couldn’t have cared less that she was fated to sleep starving by the roadside as an abandoned child. Of course she was doing good.
“And you do?” Calla asks. “You, who have caused multiple massacres as a byproduct of poorly executed plans.”
The thing is, if King Kasa had been the most decent man in the kingdom who’d made one mistake by burning her village, Calla would have lifted her sword regardless. It’s not a lie to say she’s invested in good, but she supposes that can’t be the whole, unblemished truth either. If revenge brought guaranteed destruction upon Talin, she might still have continued onward.
“As I’ve told the council,” Leida says, “I have already confessed to everything I am guilty of.”
Calla expected Leida to counter the accusation. To say that she hadn’t intended for people to die. Leida gave an anarchist sect the knowledge to siphon power. Plotted a conspiracy to crumble the monarchy from the inside. It’s not that Calla disapproves: she’s almost sad that Leida ran laps around San-Er thinking she could remain virtuous while others wouldn’t hesitate to cut a line right through to reap their own gains. Leida Miliu had the right idea, but she can only be as good as her most crooked byproduct.
Calla kicks a foot at the radiator. Gray paint flakes off, dusting her shoe.
“The council is convinced that you’re responsible for the attacks in the provinces,” Calla says plainly. “They will execute you and hope that will solve their headache, just as locking you up seemed to stop the Crescent Society killings in San-Er.”
Leida’s mouth opens, but before she can say anything, Calla cuts in:
“No need to argue. I know that you have nothing to do with these province deaths. The timing doesn’t make any sense. The Dovetail would’ve acted when you started working with the Crescent Societies, not after you got caught.”
Another scoff. Leida leans back, her shoulder blades hitting the pipe. “I’m so very grateful you believe me, Your Highness. Why am I here, then?”
In her memories, Calla returns to the arena. She breathes deep, her hearttears in two, and she slides the knife out of her sleeve. She exhales, the sky shatters, and Anton dies before her, his vessel turning gray in that pool of blood.
And then he resurrects, clutching her hand in the body of her cousin, his eyes furious.
“Where did you learn those techniques?”
Leida frowns. “Excuse me?”
“You weren’tbornwith the knowledge,” Calla continues, “and I doubt it was fancy guesswork. You learned it somewhere, then passed it on to the Crescent Society members. People in the provinces learned it somewhere, and someone among them is using it to perform attacks on royal soldiers. That seems correct to you, doesn’t it?”
Now Leida goes quiet. She doesn’t know exactly what Calla is seeking, but she’s smart enough to be apprehensive. By the time Calla has thrown a clear trap before her, there must be a dozen littered in every other direction, blown like winged seeds on each word. It is how the palace engages in combat. It is what Calla learned between physical training with war generals and relentless target practice, because speaking well is half the push toward winning a battle, regardless of how many legions she possesses.
Leida stays silent.
“I keep thinking…” Calla drops to a crouch, her leather jacket rustling. She needs to push harder; if Leida won’t step into a trap, Calla is more than happy to offer a shove. “Maybe it’s family tradition. The provinces don’t have many resources. No books, no files, no digital databases. Knowledge is going to pass through stories, from mother to child.” She pauses and drags her finger along the carpet threads, drawing lines. Three, like the sigil that the children in Rincun etched when the barracks turned cold. “The palace has plenty of resources, but it’s hard to go digging without someone noticing. It’s only in the privacy of your own quarters that your mother taught you how to carve people’s hearts out—”
Leida jerks forward. The cord yanks her back, her head knocking hard against the pipe in recoil.
“Don’t you speak about my mother.”
“I’m not insulting her.” Calla stretches out her neck, and her hair trails off her shoulder, unraveling like a cape around her. “If she’s the one who taught you, it was quite an accomplishment.”
Leida tries to pull against the cord again. “She had nothing to do with this.” Again. Her wrists are red. “Shediedfor this kingdom. She gave up her life for Talin, and still no one realizes her sacrifice.”
Calla believes it.
“Then who, Leida?” Calla asks. “Who taught you?”
