Page 92 of Immortal Longings
They put a flatlined patient in here earlier, shoved her with the rest of the dead until the bodies could be processed and incinerated. They thought nothing of it, didn’t assign a nurse to check why the body looked like it was still burning from the inside out, though it had been going through the yaisu sickness forseven years now—shouldn’t it have long finished? What had life support been doing?
With a shudder and a wave of qi, Otta Avia opens her eyes to the world again. All the glass in the morgue shatters; all the nearby bodies implode and splatter blackened guts on the wall. At the very center of the gory scene, Otta bolts upright on her gurney, heaving a desperate breath.
The nurses who run in almost drop into a faint. They look at Otta in shock. They hardly believe it when she opens her mouth to speak.
“The palace,” Otta croaks, trembling in her thin gown. “Take me to the Palace of Earth.Now.”
CHAPTER31
The cell door rattles loudly, stirring Calla from her sleep. Blearily, she turns toward the bars, rubbing her eyes until the world clears. Reality comes barreling back. The arena. Anton. King Kasa, his head rolling away so easily.
Calla closes her eyes again, trying to grasp the last remnants of the sleep she has emerged from. The world was brighter there. If she falls back into the dream now, maybe she won’t feel this agony clawing at her chest. Maybe she would feel less cold, could stop shivering from her very soul.
Shoes click into the cell, then the rustle of clothing. Fingertips, padding lightly at her shoulder, giving her a firm shake.
“Princess Calla, would you kindly awaken?”
“No,” Calla murmurs. Her voice scratches at her throat.
“You are needed,” Galipei continues. “I don’t want to have to drag you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Calla lets the cell take shape around her again, eyeing the gray walls and the single lightbulb on the low ceiling. “I was dreaming.”
“Dreaming?” Galipei looks around too. His uniform is crisp, the collar ironed and pressed cleanly to his neck. No one could have known it was slathered in blood the previous day. “About what?”
Calla swallows hard. Afar, some other cell is being drawn open, the metallic clank of its bars echoing loudly in the underground space.
“I dreamt there was an emperor Anton,” she whispers, almost incoherently. The wisps of the dream come back to her in a haze of colors, in jewels and thrones and golden-wrought crowns. “Let me slumber once more, to see him.”
“All right. Up we get.”
Galipei yanks her arm and tugs her out of the prison bed. She stumbles after him without much resistance, one foot after the other as they pass the other cells, the other prisoners in their shabby rags and chained ankles. They don’t bother shouting after her when she walks by. They have been exhausted into submission, nothing but piles of bones collapsed at the foot of a bed or atop the dirty sheets, staring with empty eyes. Will August let them out? Will August start liberation from within the palace first, or will he stretch out into the provinces, starting at the edges before sweeping back into San-Er?
Calla stumbles on the steps leading up to the exit.
“Hey, hey,” Galipei exclaims immediately. “Don’t try any funny business.”
“Why would I?” Calla replies warily, straightening and finding her footing again. She dusts her hands off. “I thought August only needed me in here until he took power.”
“Well, yes,” Galipei mutters. He shoots a look over his shoulder, then continues hurrying her along. “I’ve just never seen you stumble before. Forgive me if my suspicions were raised.”
They emerge from the passage, walking through a set of doors that the palace guards hold open, eyes trained on Calla as she’s pulled along. Aboveground now, she winces against the light. Brightness shines through a palace window, leaving a four-panel design on the red carpet. Under Calla’s heavy shoes, theflooring feels like it might give way. Like she could stomp a little too hard, and the soft padding might split in two, breaking a hole through the palace so she falls all the way down.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Calla says quietly, and she wishes the palacewouldcrumble beneath her feet. The ground ought to do her a favor, open a hole and swallow her up, crush her lungs until she stops breathing, plug up her nose and mouth with rubble and dust. King Kasa is dead. Her role in this is fulfilled. The exit light of her world is flashing, blinking neon like the ones that light every hospital corridor. She’s ready to join the lover she put in the grave.
Calla’s hand twitches as she continues to follow Galipei.Not here,she decides, easing her fingers away from her body. She swallows and moves her tongue to rest at the bottom of her mouth too, away from her sharp teeth, the veins there throbbing as if they know how easily she could bite them open.
When August is crowned, he will free her. She’ll leave the twin cities, keep walking to the edges of Talin until she sees the true sea. She doesn’t want the rocky shores in San-Er. Elsewhere, they have talked of sand and smooth, polished stone. There, she can have her choice. She could spill her own blood, run a blade down her arm and let the beaches run with red until a gradient spreads along the golden sand. She could sweep out with the water, wash away into the wide, open world. It doesn’t matter how. As long as it takes her. As long as it brings her to Anton.
Galipei stops before a wide set of doors, knocking once. Before Calla can search her memory for which part of the palace this is and who he’s taking her to see, the doors have already opened. A dozen palace servants stand inside, towels and clothes clutched and readied in their hands. They pull her into the room, their grips firm, muttering amid themselves.
Calla lets them examine her without protest. August must have seized power by now, must have sent instructions through the palace to prepare for the crowning ceremony, inviting San-Er’s civilians to come witness a new divine choosingwhen the crown is set on his head. The people inside the palace have always been loyal to him anyway. There couldn’t possibly have been any dissent. She wonders if he has also confirmed her return.
“So this is Princess Calla,” one of the servants says. There’s her answer. Of course he would have jumped to the announcement, to assure the people that this violence could only be expected of someone who was already an outlaw. “She looks half-dead.”
A brave soul, to say so in Calla’s presence. Or perhaps the elderly woman who spoke has no hesitation because it is the truth: Calla barely has the strength to stand upright, never mind take offense.
“That’s her own fault. We didn’t do anything to her down there,” Galipei replies. His hand lifts, then pauses in hesitation. A beat later, he sets it down on Calla’s shoulder. “His Highness wants her ready in an hour. Can you get it done?”
