Page 89 of Vilest Things
Anton poses the question casually. In answer, she reaches out and smoothshis tangle of hair. She doubts he needs to know this, lest his big head grow larger, but this body suits him most. The easy agility, the strong jaw. It gives him a look that closely resembles what is inside: simultaneously the steadfast soldier serving the kingdom and the rebelling noble it never should have armed. Anton Makusa in his birth body has acquired age well, much better than some vessels that are left stagnant for too long. He watches her while she inspects him, holds her gaze taking him in, and when her eyes lift to meet his face, he doesn’t look away.
“What areyouthinking about?” she returns. The question seemed like it was leading somewhere.
Anton breaks their staring contest to check over his shoulder, as though someone might be tailing them. It’s entirely quiet. They’re careful to keep their steps light while moving through the smaller streets of the village, avoiding the main thoroughfare. It is too easy to leave footprints in the mud and offer a traceable path for anyone searching.
“On that phone call, you asked your attendants about a Sinoa Tuoleimi.”
Calla stiffens. “Have you heard the name?”
“It took me until now to remember why it was familiar, but yes. Otta owned a book that had her name on the front page.Property of Sinoa Tuoleimi.She destroyed it years ago. I watched her throw it into the fire after a fight with August.”
This is bizarre. A whole Tuoleimi princess existed shortly before the war, and yet their history texts have no mention of her. How can the only records of her existence be one book that Otta Avia owned… and Calla’s hallucinations?
“Strange,” Calla says.
Anton casts her a look. They pause when they approach the inner side of Actia’s yamen, waiting for movement, before nodding at each other and moving quickly through the center. It’s empty. Dead silent.
“Think we were spotted?” Anton asks outside.
“Doesn’t matter.” Calla hauls herself onto their horse, taking on primaryrider responsibilities for the first section of the journey. “We’re going. Come on.”
Anton pulls himself up behind her. The horse takes some adjusting, whinnying at the first appearance of the sand dunes, but Calla navigates onto a smoother path quickly. It’s hard to see through the sand and in the dark. She’s almost sure there’s supposed to be a paved route here, cleared for travelers.
They ride without speaking. Anton must be deep in thought, because he does not remark on any of Calla’s riding, even when she sends them over a particularly rough dune. Her constant motion keeps her sweating, fighting back the cold. Nonetheless, her nose loses feeling shortly into the journey. The temperature is plummeting further. It’s coming from the mountains, funneling a cold that she can feel in her lungs each time she breathes in.
“Princess,” Anton calls suddenly. “How far have we gone?”
Calla blinks, straining her ears to catch his question past the roaring wind. “We’re entering northern Actia now. Why?”
“Look. There are people riding toward us.”
At first, Calla thinks Anton must be mistaken, that their poor rest the previous night means he’s seeing things in the horizon. She squints. The dunes have started to level out. In a few hours, as they approach the border between Actia and Rincun, it will become flat, dry land, made for crops to die.
Then, as they get closer, Calla realizes Anton is right. The distant shape is another delegation. Certainly not August’s, nor any rural group.
“Flag them down,” Calla commands. “Wave your arms.”
Anton does as he is told without hesitating, rising slightly on the saddle and waving vigorously. Calla catches the moment the delegation must spot them, because the riders at the front of the group begin to slow. She counts only five people. Not wanting to risk any danger, Calla pulls to a complete stop while there’s still distance between them and hops off with her sword clattering against her leg. Anton follows, nothing for a weapon but equally eager to move.
To the east, the sun has started to rise and bleed a murky violet semicircle. The delegation comes to a halt while they remain a field away too. Unlike Calla and Anton’s sturdy approach, the moment the first rider alights from their horse, they stumble hard, taking two steps and faltering on the third.
“That’s a councilmember,” Anton says at once. “She voted against the delegation for the crown. What is she doing out here?”
As soon as Anton identifies the woman, Calla recognizes her as Venus Hailira too. Her clothes are torn. Days old for sure, dirt and blood smeared on the light fabric. The sun climbs higher. Ripples gold and yellow over the sand.
“She came to protect Rincun,” Calla says, uncomprehending. “But what is she doing riding back south?”
Calla starts to move forward. The closer she gets, the clearer it is that Venus is seconds away from collapsing. Her lips are blue. Her skin is bloodless.
“Venus,” she calls. “What are you doing out here? Are you okay?”
Venus keeps herself upright long enough for Calla to fully approach. The moment Calla grabs Venus by the arms to check for injuries, she keels over. Calla scrambles to prevent the councilmember from falling. When Calla lowers onto her knees, the ground might as well be made of ice for how it stings upon contact, even through her leather trousers.
“Venus,” Calla says, panic sinking into her voice. “What happened? Who attacked?”
“Don’t,” Venus rasps. “Don’t go in.”
Calla doesn’t understand. She glances over to Anton, who appears equally flabbergasted. His gaze lifts over the other members of the delegation, to the horizon where Rincun and its distant mountains reach for the sky. The sun has risen enough to show that the other riders are in similar condition. Near-frostbitten features, their clothes dirty.
