Page 70 of Vilest Things
Calla rushes to lift the sword that was in Galipei’s hand. She puts the blade close to her face, enough to catch a reflection in the moonlight.
She hears a delirious laugh, and it takes her a second to realize she’s the one making that noise. She laughs and laughs with Galipei’s reflection mimicking each move, then as quickly as the sound came, she settles into abrupt sobriety. In the silence, her eyes blinking silver, she finally has to reckon with the question that emerges, the question she’s never thought too hard about lest it push something strange out into the open.
She’s always known something peculiar happened to put her on this course: either she was born with Tuoleimi yellow as her natural eye color, or she didn’t bring her own eyes with her when she invaded royalty. Either she was born with the most unlikely coincidence, or she was born with the fathomless ability to jump without theoneindication that has marked invasion for as long as their kingdom has kept records.
First she jumps into royalty. Not merely a child but, if any of these voices are to be believed, someone with a qi much older, someone a hundred times more powerful. Now she’s jumped into a Weisanna without really trying, which is an exercise that hovers at the cardinal baseline of impossibility.
“Who the fuckamI?” she whispers.
Her body doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. If the princess were hiding in there and pretending to be immobilized, she would still need to breathe, would she not? It can’t be an act. Her collar has fallen slightly astray; there is still a sigil marking her chest. Acting off a suspicion, Calla goes to push the shirt collar on Galipei’s body and glances down cautiously.
A sigil made of light. It’s the same as Leida, when she jumped betweenbodies and marked up the one she moved to. Calla scrubs a finger against the light sigil, and nothing budges.
She shoots to her feet, perturbed. Maybe she shouldn’t have drawn something irremovable on herself before understanding what it was. There is a language to these sigils, and she doesn’t have the first idea whatthis onedoes.
“Okay,” she says aloud. “I’m okay.”
Something catches her eye upon the temple’s outer wall. She didn’t notice it earlier, too distracted and delirious from the pain, but with her head clear, the flapping motion in her periphery is persistent. Calla turns properly to find a dagger buried to the hilt, fastening a folded piece of paper to the clay wall.
She’s almost hesitant to leave her body unguarded, but she trudges over to the temple wall, keeping herself within view. Otta left this for her; there’s no doubt about it. The dagger looks newer than anything in this city, shiny and metallic where everything else is covered in a layer of grit. As soon as Calla plucks it out—the blade emerging from the clay with a hard yank—the paper drops to the floor. Skeptical that this can be anything good, Calla’s holding her breath when she picks it up and unfolds it.
COME ALONE.
The words show first. Below the instruction is a map, one blackXmarked beyond the border of Rincun, deep in the mountains. There’s no debate regarding the purpose of the map. Otta has given her the location of the divine crown, and Calla cannot fathomwhy.
Calla glances over to the marble steps. Her body—if she can even lay claim and say it is hers—remains splayed. Though Otta came through this city to leave the map, she must be long gone. The city is eerily quiet, echoing Calla’s breaths back at her.
She shoves the map into her body’s jacket pocket, keeping it safe. Then, with a grunt, she picks herself up and drapes her collapsed vessel over her shoulder.
Galipei’s strong. She shouldn’t be surprised. Still, she doesn’t remember how it feels to move in a body that’s not hers, and it takes her considerable effort not to flail her new limbs, to adjust her center of gravity while walking back through the city’s main road and avoid tripping when she’s stepping over the mound of dirt at the city gate. Galipei must have forced it open when he followed her in. She didn’t even hear him.
Her plan forms as she approaches the campsite, shifting her collapsed body off her shoulder and into a more appropriate hold. The few guards on night duty spot her coming toward them. They call out in alarm when they see the body in her arms, making the conclusion that they must be under attack again.
“It’s all right,” she calls, and Galipei’s voice almost breaks under her use, pitched too high. She clears her throat, sinks into his natural timbre. “Where’s Otta Avia?”
Two of the nearest guards exchange glances.
“Otta Avia?” one echoes. “Is she not in her tent?”
“No,” she answers. “Go wake His Majesty.”
“I’m awake.”
Anton emerges from his tent at a speed that indicates he was already listening from inside. He’s squinting for a moment—that’s right,a gut feeling in Galipei supplies: August’s vision isn’t the best at night, and Calla takes aim. She shifts the body in her arms. Waits for the first sign of realization when the face turns toward the moonlight.
Maybe it’ll be glee. Maybe annoyance, that someone got to her before he could.
Instead, she watches a visible wave of horror take over Anton’s expression. He surges forward in a run, and it’s the most he’s ever broken character because August Shenzhi does notrun.
“Is she—”
Anton doesn’t finish his question. His hands come down on her body’s neck,feeling for a pulse.I would have answered for it with my life,she said to him, the last thing she said before all of this.I still can.
Look where they have come to.
Calla doesn’t rush to make reassurances. With Galipei’s height, she looms over him while the clouds blow over the moon; the night darkens to utter shadow, and maybe Anton loves her after all, if he’s breathing like this, ragged and desperate.
“I found her in the city,” she says. “I heard her calling for Otta when I was nearing the scene.”
