Page 15 of Vilest Things
“The Crescent Societies,” Calla says out loud.
“What?” Matiyu asks.
“We should check on the Cres—”
“Announcing His Majesty.”
A drumbeat booms through the palace wing suddenly, reverberating lowand long. Calla, though she swallows a curse, isn’t surprised. It was only a matter of time before word spread that she slipped into the city ahead of the delegation. She entered the palace and didn’t report to the king first. What a poor royal advisor she makes.
When Anton strolls through, unaccompanied by the usual presence of the royal guards, Calla barely keeps her arms at her sides. The roots of his blond hair are coming in dark, curling around the crown on his head. He hasn’t been maintaining August’s dye routine. It’s a shock to see the change, as though the two of them have started merging into one. She wants to claw August’s face off him. Then she wants to caress his cheek and beg him to understand what she did in the arena. But she stays put, because it doesn’t matter what she wants. Anton Makusa is furious with her.
“Your Majesty,” Calla says.
“Your Highness,” he echoes back. “What a surprise.”
“You couldn’t possibly believe I’d remain in exile for long.”
The surveillance room presses past quiet, growing tense enough to register as unusual. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Matiyu wince, and Calla attempts a course correction, flashing a smile. The machines at her side blink green and red. The walls loom closer, each tear in the iridescent blue wallpaper growing larger to listen too.
You should have left the games. You should have run. You should have run withme.
“No one here can take a joke between cousins, it seems.” Calla laces her hands behind her back. She grips the edge of her jacket, hiding the tremor that threatens to show. “I was so efficient at surveying the provinces that I have returned early ahead of the delegation. Aren’t you pleased, Your Majesty?”
Anton, like he’s already exhausted, drops into an open chair beside the surveillance cubicles. Their eyes meet; his are pitch-black. When Calla takes a step closer, his gaze narrows, still dark as night but reflecting a hue of purple. Anyone who knows August Shenzhi well enough should know that his eyes flashblue-black instead. But that list is very small, and given that Galipei Weisanna is nowhere to be found at present, Anton is probably doing a fine job keeping those people away.
“Protocol says the delegation must travel together.”
“Oh, psh.” Calla shrugs one shoulder. “Since when have I followed protocol?”
His expression darkens in an instant, sweeps that violet away like a midnight flash flood. This visit to Rincun was, of course, an implicit threat. Anton Makusa is the only one who knows the truth about her identity, and she is the only one who knows the truth about his current deception—so she should keep her mouth shut if she wants him to do the same. Her once lover looks at her with the ire of a battle adversary: she chose herself over him, overthem, in that arena, sacrificed him to fulfill her ultimate goal. If the tables had been turned, she would have lunged for Anton’s throat the moment she saw him again after the battle.
Then again, if the tables had been turned, they never would have ended up in that arena to begin with, but Anton wouldn’tlistento her and pull his wristband. He chose the allure of victory too. She is not alone in this blame, and if she’s being honest, she’s growing increasingly irritated at the fire he’s tossing her way, given his own role in this mess.
“I expected you to report to me first, Princess Calla. It is only proper.”
Anton is alive, at least. She didn’t lose him to her vengeance. She murdered King Kasa, and Anton Makusa still walks the earth. That’s something. Even if it feels like a bomb that could blow up in her face at any moment.
“I’m here now.”
“After I sought you out myself. I had to leave an important meeting about the wall.”
His behavior is a good imitation of August, she can admit. Every movement is the graceful sort of casual, his limbs relaxed even while his attention remains alert. But she knows what to look for, and his small faults slip out in a silent herald. The quicker tilt of his head. The longer swing of his arm. August wouldnever prop his hands against furniture like that. It’s too cavalier. August would have both his feet flat on the ground, not rested lightly on his toes. That’s the behavior of someone used to running. Though August’s body isn’t ill-fitting on Anton, it’soffin the manner of a mirror reflection having a half-second lag.
“May I speak to you now?” Calla asks. “In private.”
“No.”
Someone in the corner gasps. A small sound, nothing that draws further attention. It only makes audible what every witness here must be thinking. In King Kasa’s toppling, Calla Tuoleimi and August Shenzhi were certainly allies. While the palace servants whisperedKing-Killer, if it hadn’t been for August, the council would have instantly had Calla executed for her crimes.
“Matiyu, clear the room,” Calla orders.
“What?” Matiyu blurts. He looks between Calla and his king. “Is that allowed?”
“You may be overstepping, Highness,” Anton says blithely.
“Confidential palace business,” Calla offers without missing a beat. It is not entirely out of line to ask for the first convenient place of debrief—especially not for Calla Tuoleimi, whom the palace knows to be a wild card. If Anton Makusa has any sense of self-preservation, he will agree without argument. As he should have back then, in the arena. Yet instead, he’s playing his own stupid games, and Calla wishes she could take him by the shoulders and shake him into submission.
The room begins to clear. Each employee gets up hesitantly enough to afford them deniability if their king were to declare that anyone leaving ought to be imprisoned, their bodies still facing their cubicles until the final second. Matiyu is the last to shuffle through the entryway, and he grimaces awkwardly at Calla before sliding the door shut. It clicks.
