Page 43 of Vilest Things
“Leida,” Calla says. “I already played in the games. I don’t have time for more.”
“I don’t know what part of this seems like a game to you.” Leida jostles about, exaggerating her confinement in the cord. “Either let me go or return me to the cells. It’s not my fault that the king you put on the throne is showing his true colors.”
She sounds like Anton. All Calla keeps hearing are accusations, yet no one seems to have a solution. What do theywant? To burn the kingdom to ash and start over wearing threadbare clothes on flat plains? Calla has done her time going hungry in Rincun. She isn’t going to volunteer to return to that way of life.
“What if he kills some Crescents and the provinces never starve again?” She doesn’t know why she bothers trying to save face for August. “Can’t exactly improve the kingdom if he’s never given the peace to build.”
Leida stays silent awhile. It’s peculiar: there is no noise from the protests in here. The walls of her quarters have obstructed it entirely.
“You know,” Leida says slowly, almost lethargically, “a fish in poisoned water won’t be thankful to await a feeding every hour. It will want a new tank where it can swim uninhibited to find its own food.”
“I don’t really care for riddles.”
“It’s not a riddle. It’s as plain as daylight.”
Calla wanders over to the thick curtain. Brushes at the edge to peer outside, seeing little except shadows.
“What fine daylight we have today,” she murmurs.
It is not a phrase that would be spoken in San-Er, with its claustrophobic alleys and looming, low buildings. That’s why they chose it during the games, so Anton could identify himself no matter which body he was wearing.
“Look,” Calla says firmly, tugging the curtain back before Leida can note her distraction. “Otta has summoned me for their delegation. You know what she is capable of. Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
Leida narrows her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Calla has already as much as admitted to Leida that she’s an invader. “I don’t need to keep you here. I don’t actually give a shit if you want to bring down this palace.”
At first, Leida stays quiet. Her eyes pointedly go to the bag that Calla abandoned near the door. Maybe Leida will call her bluff. When all’s said and done, Calla is here prying for answers from an enemy of the throne instead of taking her stolen assets and leaving. An errant advisor is still an advisor: no matter her methods, she continues tending to the threats pressing on the monarchy.
She doesn’t want to give a shit. Truly—she wishes she cared less. But the problem with destroying the palace is that Calla can’t imagine what comes in the aftermath. Someone sneakier than Kasa, perhaps. Something that comes slithering out from Otta Avia’s sleeve. Peace is not guaranteed. And if Calla lets that happen by turning the other way, maybe it’ll come find her later anyhow in whichever province corner she hunkers down at.
It’s why August was supposed to take over. It’s why August was supposed to be their fair king, bringing in a new, just age.
“I want that backpack,” Leida finally says.
Of course she does.
“Fine.” Calla leans against the wall. “I’m listening.”
Leida brings one ear to her shoulder, then does the same on the other side, stretching her neck. A few exaggerated motions later, she fidgets in her bindings, as though some godly intervention might come down from the heavens and save her from this bargain she’s made if she holds out a little longer from speaking. Nothing comes.
“Leida, don’t waste my time.”
“I’m thinking about what you need to know,” she retorts. Leida huffs, and, with each word practically dragging through her teeth, finally opens with, “Before the war, Talin’s families used to have patron gods. You know this part?”
Calla puts her hands into her jacket pockets. “I could assume.”
“They prayed to their patron god for protection and health. That part makes it into the history books sometimes. The part left out is that some of them went further than prayer. Some of them made sacrifices in exchange for heightened levels of qi. The only problem was, the gods were fickle. Merely sacrificing each time they wanted to be heard was unreliable. Sometimes killing a cow afforded new strength. Sometimes killing ten neighbors achieved nothing.”
Calla, again, returns to Anton’s dead body in her mind’s eye. Her dagger, piercing his back and sinking to the hilt. All that blood spilling and spilling, dampening the arena ground.
“The old gods could choose when they wanted to listen if a mortal’s sacrifice called for their attention among the pantheon,” Leida goes on, “but each family possessed a sigil that called directly to their patron god. Patron gods were forced to listen if a sigil was marked after a sacrifice. It was the one foolproof method to unlock access to a god’s ear.”
“I need to stop you right there.” Calla closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep inhale. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Youaskedto understand what Otta is doing.”
Calla’s eyes snap open. “The gods aren’treal. Do you know how manypeople I have killed? How much qi I’ve released back into the ether, how much blood has run by my hand? Don’t you think I would have noticed by now ifthe godstuned in each time?”
