Page 9 of Immortal Longings
“Believe it or not,” August begins when the waitress is out of earshot, “I tracked you down of my own volition, not at the palace’s instruction. King Kasa certainly wouldn’t recognize Chami in the lottery list. His attention has never been for the small details.” He lifts his teacup and takes a sip. “I alone have been looking for you, Calla. Ever since the Palace of Heavens went under.”
It’s a lot of effort to go through when he had no assurance that she was even alive. Calla kicks her feet up onto the table. August jolts with surprise, but he blinks it away as fast as it came, watching Calla fold her arms over her chest, her coat rustling as she adjusts her boots comfortably.
“You weren’t afraid you were chasing ghosts?” she asks.
“I knew you were alive,” August retorts immediately. “Otherwise, King Kasa wouldn’t have locked himself up the moment you committed your little bloodbath. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be afraid to leave the palace’s impenetrable security. He might have the rest of the twin cities fooled, but at least give me some credit.”
The bitterness in his tone is clear. He makes no effort to hide it.
“So why haven’t you told him?” Calla asks. “Go tattle and collect your points as heir.”
“Because I’m seeking your help.”
Calla can’t help the snort that escapes. She unfolds her arms, then reaches over to poke a finger at August, mostly to see if he’ll allow it. Her nail digs into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his arm. Maybe Galipei will reveal himself as one of the patrons nearby. Maybe he’ll lunge over the booths and push her away before August can utter a word of complaint.
“What can I help you with?” she asks. Her tone turns teasing, condescending. “Patricide?”
Silence. August doesn’t refute her. He only stares at her steadily, like it isn’t a preposterous suggestion at all. Calla drops her feet from the table, quickly straightening up.
“Oh, shit.Really?”
“Are you so surprised?” he asks. His voice drops lower. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t why you enrolled in the games.”
Of course it is. For five years, Calla Tuoleimi has been biding and biding her time, tending to the fury that burns beneath her ribs. There is but one task left in her vengeance: King Kasa’s head plucked from his spine and flung across the coliseum. The image of it keeps her warm at night, propels her forward even when she feels listless and useless, another cog turning in these twin cities despite the power her title has… or had.
She’s not a princess anymore.
She made sure of that when she killed both her parents and littered Er’s throne room with the bodies of their guards. Her plan had been to destroy both thrones at once and wipe out the royal bloodline. The roots had been in place. Civilian grievances had reached their height. Protests erupted by the city wall every week. Given an opportunity, the people of San-Er could march into the palaces and raze them… she knew, she knew they could do it.
Calla forces herself out of her thoughts, pushing away the frustration that mounts whenever she thinks back to that night. She hadn’t been fast enough. King Kasa had scrambled to protect himself as soon as the news of her massacre started to travel, knowing that he was next. Calla had no choice except to run, slipping into his city to wait while San’s royal guard searched for Er’s traitor princess. Now, so close to her second chance, she cannot sink into her anger, or she might never emerge. She has spent too long compartmentalizing every terrible impulse and smoothing them down to be palatable. When the time comes to confront the blistering shards that live inside her, it will have to be in one big swallow.
“Cousin,” Calla simpers falsely, “if Kasa drops dead, can you count on installing yourself? You might be heir at the moment”—she reaches over the table, cupping her palm to his cheek—“but we have no true blood relation. The divine crown could reject you. Take the throne then, and the council will rebel against your rule before the people do.”
August slaps her hand away, visible irritation strengthening in his expression. He is August Shenzhi now, but he was born August Avia, to a rubber-factory owner and his seamstress second wife. It wasn’t until his father’s sister married King Kasa that they were all brought into the palace when August was eight years old. Calla still remembers it. She was ten, attending that frightfully lavish wedding in an itchy dress with a collar that scratched her throat.
The Palace of Earth went through a year of tragedy when August was fourteen. First, his father died from illness. Then his half sister caught the yaisu sickness and his mother left the city, jumping to her death from the top of the wall. August started making his slow climb in the palace thereafter, a crowd favorite among the distant relatives—and most importantly, King Kasa’s favorite. Shortly before eighteen-year-old Calla wrought havoc on her side of the city, August’s aunt died as well, and the widowed king gave up on children of his own, naming August his heir instead.
“The crown has never rejected anyone before,” August says. He keeps his words level, but there is a strain in his voice.
“Yes.” Calla raises an eyebrow. “Because it has always been passed down the same bloodline, matched to the same familial qi. As it was made to.”
There has always been one crown of Talin, even when the kingdom was split between two kings. It sits in the Palace of Union at present, never mind where, atop a satin pillow with guards stationed around it. Every coronation, it’s brought out for a momentary fitting—if a ruler is righteous and suited to rule, it remains on; if a ruler is found inadequate, the crown will burst into sparks and revolt. Though they have been taught to believe it as a divine choosing,Calla is mostly convinced that it’s only science. As the story goes, there was one attempted usurper during the reign before Kasa’s. A councilmember led a revolting force into the Palace of Earth, marching his province’s armies in with weapons raised. But the moment the councilmember placed the crown on his own head, he was felled on the spot, keeling over with no discernible cause. His armies were dissolved, and his province was reassigned to another councilmember. The reign went on securely.
“Don’t worry about it,” August assures. “It will accept me.”
Calla lifts her brow again, but her cousin keeps his gaze even. He’s far too optimistic for someone trying to stick his foot into hundreds of years of hereditary succession.
Like every other physical object in the world, the royal crown holds a small amount of qi—nowhere near the amount that makes up a person’s soul, but enough to provide a breath of life. Believers say it was made with a deciding power, guided by the old gods to seek out the royal who is most deserving to hold the throne of Talin.
Most likely, whatever ancient magic gave them the ability to jump between bodies also molded the crown, binding it to the Shenzhi and Tuoleimi bloodlines. Which means, of course, that everyone of that lineage should be found worthy.
“So what?” Calla asks, still contemptuous. “Kasa drops dead, then you take the crown? You can’t wait it out, drop a little poison into his tea yourself?”
Her cousin shakes his head. “I cannot be suspected in the slightest,” he says. “I want a public murder. One with a clear perpetrator, perhaps a wanted princess who plotted her way into the palace by winning the games. That way, no one can accuse me of being party to it—I can play the good, mournful son. Once you are hauled away, I’ll install myself and pardon you out of the kindness of my new reign. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
“No,” Calla says plainly. “I don’t want to see another reign. I want it gone. Besides, you’re deluded if you think having the crown is enough for you torule. Even if it accepts you, the council can still take it away”—she snaps her fingers—“likethat.”
It’s not quite a smile that graces August’s face, but something close enough. A quirk of a lip in fleeting amusement. As if he is tickled that such a thought would be proposed to him.
