Page 103 of Vilest Things
Calla eyes the metal chain they’ve secured around her ankle, the other end connected to an immovable loop in the corner of the room. If there is a god of fate, they must be laughing at her. To have thought herself smart for trapping Leida Miliu to an old radiator, only to suffer the same curse.
Midnight hangs heavy over Eigi’s security base. An old clock tolled from somewhere in the building a few minutes ago, announcing the time. They are using the same lodgings as they were when the delegation first set out, only this time their numbers have vastly decreased. The councilmembers already took three of the carriages back to San-Er. Only Weisannas remain with August, watching the base closely for any signs of disruption.
Calla bites down on her thumbnail, pacing another round of the room. The chain, at least, is long enough for her to walk to the windows. She should feel nervous, fearful of what August has in store for her, but that’s not what has her jittery.
August wants her to answer for betraying him. He wants her to repent for not raising the alarm during the coronation, but instead of a quick punishment where a sword strikes her neck, she will remain indefinitely at a security baseremoved from the kingdom. It won’t be her small apartment in San, where she hunkered down to prepare for a grand task. It will merely be the rest of her life in perpetual waiting. That is far worse than spilling blood.
So she’s not afraid of what August has in store for her, because it really can’t be that bad. Knowing him, knowing his patience, Calla might as well get very comfortable with this chain on her ankle.
The nerve-racking part is that she knows how she gets out of this, but once she begins, she cannot take it back.
Calla leans her head against the cool window, trying to ease the pounding around her skull. The pain is no longer a consequence of experimenting with qi, at least. She’s just tired, and cold, and likely dehydrated. In the corner of the room, the lamp is emitting a whine from the insulating cord to signal that something is broken inside the wires. Her brain is making that sound too. A flat screech as she scrambles to make sense of these ill-fitting pieces strewn across the past few days.
She keeps returning to her attempt to invade Otta during their fight. There is no science to qi. It is unpredictable, malleable, changeable just as the human spirit is. All the same, it can still be understood. It can be ordered by logic, such as: Calla invaded Galipei Weisanna, which should be impossible. Such as: Calla keeps jumping without moving her qi with her—properly, at least, or else her eyes wouldn’t be changing color. Such as: from the very, very beginning, the fact that Calla jumped at such a young age already puts her in an outlandish tier, and no matter how hard she thinks, she cannot summon proper memories of her time in Rincun. She knows she was born there. She feels how the years passed in that village. Yet she has no warmth of a mother, no impression of a father. No home, no recollection ofanythingother than the sensation of wandering and wandering and wandering in hunger.
Calla can accept that there is more to her identity than she’s been willing to acknowledge. But by that logic, there is no reason why Calla failed to invade Otta. Calla must be stronger.Surelyshe’s stronger.
Calla bites too hard on her nail, a sting traveling down her thumb. Just as she’s wincing, a soft knock comes on her door, and she freezes. Who wouldknock?
“Calla, it’s me.”
“Anton?” she hisses. “Come in. I can’t reach the door.”
The handle turns slowly, and Anton pokes his head in first. He is not bound by any ropes or chains. His collar is rumpled, loose with half his buttons undone. Most of his hair is pushed in opposite directions, crisscrossing at the back. He looks like he’s been standing at the top of a mountain for hours, getting blown by furious winds.
“They didn’t lock you down?”
Anton slips into the room and inspects the hallway for a long moment before closing the door behind him.
“They did. I got out.”
Calla looks to her chain. She shakes her ankle. “Well, what am I doing wrong?”
“It’s not your fault. They put all the guards with me. I jumped through each of them before I fetched the keys.”
This journey through the provinces has been strange enough that such feats are sounding less and less bizarre. Still, Calla blinks, and says: “What?”
Anton shrugs. He tugs his sleeve up to show her the fabric bandaged around his lower arm, then the blood-smeared sigil drawn on his bicep. His birth body is pale from a lack of sun, his skin near-translucent at the inner flesh covered by clothing. Nevertheless, when he makes a fist, his arm flexes strong, the sigil glaring red and sharp.
“This works really well.”
“I thought you didn’t remember it when I showed you.”
“My memory is better than expected.”
Calla can’t believe this. “And your sacrifice?”
“I used myself at first, but I didn’t think a shallow cut would be enough for long. I left survivors.”
On second thought, Calla doesn’t want to ask further. She sighs, then points to her chain, and Anton retrieves the keys from his pocket.
“What is your plan with this?”
“I don’t have one.” The first key doesn’t work. Anton tries another. “I only wanted to get myself free. Surely you can understand that.”
An edge enters his tone. She holds herself very still, as though the grip of his hand over her ankle is a trap too.
“You’re not free. There is no path out of this base.”
