Page 33 of Vilest Things
Then, beside him, Seiqi says: “Oh, come on now. Don’t be slow.”
Anton whirls around. Seiqi—Otta—tilts her head toward the door beside them: a playroom, its curtains drawn and interior dark. Empty, since the palace children are being kept in their own quarters while the halls are in lockdown.
“Hurry up. I don’t want surveillance to think anything’s wrong,” she says. Otta leaves Anton to lug her body through. She’s already at the other side of the room when he enters. Shock has rendered him sluggish. This should be impossible. It should be, and yet she turns around in a Weisanna’s body, and her eyes have changed accordingly. Midnight black with a flash of blue, just like August’s.
“Otta,” he says stupidly.
“You can set me down over there,” she responds, pointing to a couch. “Remember this room? We came here all the time. One camera, only for the door.”
Anton doesn’t remember, to be honest. Seven years have passed for him, and that was since Otta fell ill. Never mind how many years it has been since they were last in this room, since they felt carefree enough to be sneaking around after hours when most people were sleeping. Those last few months in the palace were frantic with the longing to leave. Escape the twin cities, flee to the provinces, rob the vault cleanly enough to build their own house and garden.
He lays Otta’s body gingerly onto the couch. She’s had a strange gleam to her appearance from the moment she woke, and it’s taken Anton until now to realize that it reminds him of King Kasa’s television screens. The broadcasts where his complexion was smoothed over, made without flaw. There is no screen before Otta, but her skin glistens anyway. She resembles a doll kept in plastic wrapping for the shelf, unperturbed by the elements and the day’s settling dust. Her time asleep has made her ill-fitting to reality, belonging to a different age.
“Anton,” Otta prompts. “What’s wrong?”
“You must be out of your mind,” he says, the words bursting from him. “Jumping into a Weisanna is what got you into this mess to begin with.”
“I didn’t do it right back then,” Otta says. She nudges the curtain, humming under her breath. Night is falling, so San-Er is growing brighter. A beam of golden yellow comes through the window, shining from the bulbs strung atop the coliseum. She doesn’t behave like someone who is newly cured, someone who is a medical marvel despite the odds.
“You shouldn’t be doing it at all.” Anton stops. Backtracks. “In fact, you shouldn’t beableto. Otta, what thefuck?”
“I thought you’d be more open-minded than this.” Her eyes skirt up to the corner of the room, and he knows she’s watching the camera. Otta beckons him,and Anton draws closer, out of the camera’s view. It is only the sensible thing to do.
“Open-minded?” he echoes. “It’s…”Impossible. Unfathomable.Just like his jump in the arena after the final battle. Just like him, surviving his own death and using the qi of that sacrificed vessel to invade August.
“What?” Otta asks. He’s come near enough to be within her reach, and her hands land on his chest. They’re calloused: the hands of a trained guard. One who must have lived her whole life believing she was among the chosen few of the kingdom who could never be invaded. The Weisannas are the only bloodline to be born as if they are doubled, though they in fact possess only one set of qi. Invasion should be an incomprehensible feat, just as it is to jump into someone doubled. How would Seiqi Weisanna react if she knew she could be jumped and used, like the regular people of Talin? How would the kingdom, hearing that this marker of difference has dissolved?
“You know,” Anton says carefully, “I’m really starting to consider the warnings that you may be an imposter.”
Otta snorts. “You already know I’m not.”
“The Weisannas being insusceptible to invasion is a core facet in our ability to jump.”
“And so is a flash of light, being within ten feet, and having a target before your eyes.” Otta’s hands glide up his chest to his neck. “I watched the footage from the Juedou. I saw what you did.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Anton says. He can hear himself sounding defensive, though Otta speaks with an edge of amusement. She doesn’t need to deliver an accusation outright. She has already gathered enough of the truth. “When did you figure it out?”
Her hand seizes his chin. Otta turns his head, putting his face against the electric light slinking through the curtain.
“I can tell the difference between shades, Anton.”
“No one else can.”
“I know yours very well. Let’s say I’m particularly sensitive to the change.” Though Otta doesn’t let go of his chin, she changes her hold. Her fingers dance along his jaw with an indifferent air. He doesn’t dare pull away, just as he’s never dared to tell Otta he disagrees with her.
“And anyway,” she goes on, “you asking about your family back there confirmed my suspicions. What was that about?”
The Dovetail. Under King Kasa, the council was prohibited by the crown from acknowledging its existence.
When Anton first invaded August’s body, there were flashes of overlaid memories, thoughts that weren’t entirely his. He’s never experienced a brief merge like that, never jumped and felt a wave of fear that he might not come out on top. He shouldn’t have been surprised that August’s qi would put up a fight. Anton might have won out, but the wisps of August that leaked through were potent. He’s certain he saw a dove pressed into a wax seal. He doesn’t know if that’s enough to go pointing fingers.
“Did you know that Kasa had my family killed?”
Otta freezes. For the first time since she woke, perhaps for the first time in her life, she looks genuinely concerned. Her lips part. Her eyes grow wide.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, I’m sorry, Anton.”
“August sure isn’t.” The bitterness on his tongue is nauseating. “He knew.”
