Page 10 of Immortal Longings
“Do you think we would be living like this if people didn’t trust in the crown?” August asks. “You don’t think our civilians would have risen up and demanded a new ruler by now? They believe in it, Calla. They need it for order. They may complain and bemoan the throne day after day, but an unshakable part of them decides that they aren’t deserving of better as long as the crown says so.”
The door to the Magnolia Diner chimes, and a group bustles in, each coming upon the turnstile slowly as their fingers scramble over the keypad. Almost pensively, August watches them pile into a booth.
“The council too. The crown’s acceptance is a mandate of the land. Once it’s on my head, no councilmember would dare yank it off. To deny it would be to deny Talin. If I have no right to be king even after the crown accepts me, then those on the council have no right to their plots of land either. They were installed by kings, were they not? Kings chosen by the crown.”
Calla sits back, pursing her lips. The newcomers nearby are making themselves at home, the rise and fall of conversation in the diner adapting to their loud, excitable screeching. Yilas comes out from the back to take their orders and shoots a wary glance at Calla, but she does not intrude. She jots down several requests for spicy wontons, then returns to the kitchen.
“All right,” Calla says. “Say that every other component falls into place. You could leave me in a cell once I carry this through. Why should I trust you?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” August shoots back. He pushes his sleeves up, exposing his forearms to the blue-white light. Everyone else in this diner looks a little sickly under its cold glow, the usual malnourishment of the city renderedstarker than ever. August could not look malnourished even if he tried. His features only stand out more, as does the small scar near his wrist.
On one diplomatic visit during their childhood, a servant had shattered a vase near August, the shards cutting his arm. King Kasa had whirled in, asking what happened, and instead of having the servant hauled away, August lied. He said that the vase fell by itself, that the blood dripping down his fingers was no matter. August, though cold and monotonous at times, is not hateful.
If given a throne, he would rule well. There are no good kings, but there are fair ones.
“What was your alternative, Calla?” August says quietly. “You must know that there is no other way to walk out of regicide alive. The palace guard would have you captive as soon as you strike him. You sign your own execution papers.”
“If that’s what it takes,” Calla replies. “I would do it. My execution papers for Talin’s freedom from his reign.”
“Then listen to me. You don’t need the execution papers at all. You have me. I will free you after you free the kingdom.”
There’s something about this that feels too convenient to be true. August has always seemed suspiciously well polished. Half of her is ready to accept her cousin’s plan, while the other half knows she is too desperate for Talin’s salvation, and desperation colors one’s eyes from reason. It has been five long years—lonely years, working without the promise of success. The trap laid open for her here is so glaringly obvious, such a flashing red flag, that she has to wonder if Augustisbeing genuine, because how could someone trying to trick her possibly make a plan this transparent?
“You sit so comfortable as Kasa’s prized heir.” She needs to hear it in his own words. “Why would you want him gone?”
“You know the answer to that,” August replies easily. “There were once two heirs of San-Er. Why did you kill your parents?”
Calla’s knuckles whiten. Her palms sting with the memory of the maps shepicked up that day five years ago, after she’d wandered into the war rooms without any aim and found pencil-drawn plans for the troops they were sending out into the provinces. That wasn’t the only reason she snapped, but it was certainly the final push.
August nods. “That’s why,” he says to Calla’s silence. “I know you, Calla. You don’t really want the monarchy crumbled and burned to the ground—you want this version of it gone. You want Kasa off the throne. The Palace of Heavens had good tutors, I’m sure. Your formal education must have covered the kind of chaos that can arise out of a power vacuum.”
Calla turns a frosty glare in his direction. “Maybe chaos is what we need.”
“Come on.” He fiddles with his sleeve again. “I know you’re more mature now than the eighteen-year-old who tried to vanquish both palaces. You’ve had years to think about your mistakes. About what you could do differently this time. Say youhadsucceeded. What then? A capital of two hundred million people, descended into anarchy? A kingdom of three hundred million with no order? Don’t tell me I’ve overestimated your intelligence.”
This is what August does best. Clawing his fingers into someone’s mind, deeper and deeper, until his own ideas have been planted there as the truest course of action.
“Listen to me,” Prince August demands, giving her no time to think up a sarcastic response. “I am offering you a future where you walk out with your head intact and get what you want—what youactuallywant, not just the short-term imitation of it. The people fed. The city wall open. The kingdom flourishing. You were born a princess—you can even serve as an advisor to my throne, if you wish. But I must sit on the throne first. Are you in?”
The coliseum is near enough to the diner that they can hear an audible shift rumbling through San. The alley outside grows with noise, leading spectators en masse toward the palace for the Daqun, the opening of the games. These games are entertainment, whether on the television set at home or in the stands of thearena. Never mind eighty-seven of their fellow civilians being murdered by the end of it. Murder by sword or by the throne’s refusal to save its most vulnerable from starvation… what’s the difference? San-Er has so many fucking people that one life is as common as a cockroach, fit to be squashed and disregarded without remorse.
Calla turns away from her cousin, exhaling as she inspects her wristband. “Are you giving me a choice?”
“Of course.” August tips his chin toward the diner windows. Though it is dark, though it is always dark down here, the movement of the crowds is visible, each head bobbing past the stained glass like shadow puppets controlled by strings from the skies. “The coliseum awaits. I won’t pull you from the games, but you lose my help. You lose me keeping your wristband active even if you don’t check in every twenty-four hours. You lose me wiping out your fellow contestants by invading their bodies and throwing them off buildings. Is that what you prefer: more blood on your hands by the end of this?”
She had forgotten how good August is at talking his way through anything. Calla can’t help but let loose a small laugh. The games are starting. This is practically an offer of guaranteed victory. By that logic, maybe it’s an easy decision after all.
“Very well,” she agrees plainly. She can always back out later if she needs to. She can always kill August too, if he’s only trying to use then discard her.
“Good.” August reaches into his shirt pocket and brings out a small chip between his fingers. Without asking, he takes hold of Calla’s arm clinically, then turns it so he can see the empty slot in her wristband. He puts the chip in, holding it until the screen emits a beep. The number57flashes bright.
“Here’s my first gift to you,” August says, releasing her arm. “Go get your weapons and run.”
CHAPTER4
Anton spends his last half hour of the countdown getting drunk.
It doesn’t matter when it comes to his ability to play in the games. As soon as he leaves this body, he’ll leave this pleasant haze too, and the original occupant will awaken to deal with the aftereffects.
