Page 110 of Vilest Things
“You will take off the crown,” August instructs. “You will return it to me.”
“No,” Calla says. “You have failed your kingdom, August.”
August scoffs. He is, without charade, genuinely confounded that Calla would accuse him of wrongdoing. August Shenzhi has spent his whole life splitting apart what made Kasa terrible and what he will do differently. He thinks he knows what sets him apart from his adoptive father.
“Do you see me in lavish fabrics?” August asks. “Or holding feasts while the people starve?”
Calla almost feels pity toward him.
“You may not be a greedy king,” she returns, “but you are still a hungry one.”
When she and August were young, Calla’s first real impression of himformed around that shattered vase. The servant broke it, King Kasa came in, and August accepted the blame. King Kasa’s anger deflected; August wiped the blood off his arm like nothing. No one was punished that day. The servant lived blameless. How worthy August was, she used to think. Never mind that they could have brushed away the shards after the servant took responsibility for breaking it. Never mind that it was King Kasa at fault, not August in the right. She has given him so much credit for acting well, but he built a world where the sole choice was between him and Kasa, and of course she chose August.
“What is that supposed to mean?” August asks calmly.
It means that between two tyrants, Calla may as well become the third.
“The crown has chosen me. I am the rightful heir to the Palace of Heavens, and an inheritor of San-Er.”
Anton pushes the horse forward another step suddenly, and half the Weisannas flinch. They are unsure if they should continue following instructions to attack.
“I invoke my claim to the kingdom of Talin,” Calla bellows. “Every province shall swear their loyalty to me, and then I will free them from the throne. Surrender now. You have no other choice.”
The spectators cry out. Exaltations. Hails.
Prayers.
“You cannot.” August lifts his chin. “You will not.”
“Cousin,” she says. “You should know me better.”
The crown pulses on her head. It tells her,Go on.In the Palace of Heavens, Calla could feel every spray of blood, could count each forced entry of metal cleaving into flesh. This time, it’s so much easier. This time, she doesn’t hold in the qi wanting to burst from her chest, and with nary a movement, she’s slit the throats of the Weisannas in front of August, spurting carnage onto the ground.
There are screams from the spectators. Calla hears them as if the sounds are far in the distance. Most of the spectators, however, stay quiet. Most are watchful, waiting.
August stands surrounded by blood. He stares at his feet. Even with such posture, he looks every bit a royal, disgraced from a pedestal by force.
Please,she pleads silently.
Calla doesn’t want to kill him, after all. Easy as it would be, she still sees him as her cousin, and she doesn’t have any more of those ties left in the world. She has the blood of her family smeared up to her imposter elbows. It would be so tragic to add more.
Please.
Slowly, very slowly, August Shenzhi steps back. Surrenders.
They waste no time. Anton pushes the horse forward, taking them to the gate and through the thin open section. There is no safety until Calla occupies the palace and makes a proper bid for the throne, but the moment they enter San-Er, there is clearly something wrong. A plume of gray smoke rises from the distance. From the center of the city, where the Palace of Union stands.
“Be careful,” Calla warns, letting Anton slide off the horse first.
Together they dive into the alleys, sprinting fast through the streets of San-Er. They have practice from the games, from the mornings they spent flitting through these shadows avoiding being seen and coordinating an attack on their next opponents.
“What the fuck is happening?” Calla asks. In the main thoroughfare, there are people running away from the palace, holding bleeding limbs and ash-smeared faces.
“Crescent Societies,” Anton answers. “I would bet anything.”
By the time they have made it to the Palace of Union, there isn’t any further clarity to the situation. The turnstiles at the main entrance have been blown clean out of existence. Crescent Society members guard the front, holding swords for weapons. No palace guards to be seen.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Calla whispers when they duck out of sight, taking a moment to hide behind a shop’s front sign. “Even if they managed an attack, where are the guards?”
