“Himself raged for days,” Yanis confided in a soft voice as she washed Rowena’s hair. “Destroyed half the palazzo and murdered two of his closest advisors, cut their throats and summoned some Eldritch to read the signs the spatters their blood made. These days, he rarely sleeps and seldom eats. Just paces and shouts, like he’s completely lost his mind.”
Rowena controlled her instinctive shudder of revulsion. “I can’t imagine worse. He was bad enough before.”
This time he might kill me.
Her blood chilled, dulling the surge of elation over Alastor’s decisive victory. Rowena gripped the edge of the tub, white-knuckled, as Yanis nudged her forward so she could scrub her back. The tyrant was particular about cleanliness, likely a psychological quirk related to the copious amounts of blood on his hands.
“We won’t let anything happen to you,” the other woman said then.
Honestly, it was uncanny, almost like Yanis could read Rowena’s mind. She must’ve shown her shock because the attendant added, “You’re a symbol, you know? Survived the despot’s obsession all these years, still managed to get out and see the world. In some ways, it’s like you are Golgerra, our hopes for it anyway. We all want to live through this terrible war and come out free on the other side, free to choose, free to live, free to leave.”
Rowena stilled, unsure how to respond. While some part of her was honored, she was also horrified. She didn’t want to be the symbol of anything, let alone this. Would she never be allowed to live as her own person instead of the object of obsession or a torch lighting the way to rebellion? And on another level, it alarmed her because quite often, people who become symbols ended up as martyrs.
“You will,” she said finally, hoping she wasn’t making a promise she couldn’t keep. “We’ll see a free Golgerra in our lifetime.”
Muttering a curse, Yanis rushed through the rest of the preparatory ritual, massaging Rowena with the perfumed oil that the tyrant favored, hints of mint and juniper, fragrances that nauseated Rowena to this day. She breathed through her nose as Yanis arranged her hair, though she refused all ranking braids. This was a point of pride, one she wouldn’t relinquish.
At the end of the process, she wore a beautiful silver gown that wound around her body like loving arms, a face painted so that she scarcely recognized herself, with eyes that shone like diamonds and were just as hard, a mouth so red that it seemed she might bite the tyrant’s heart in two. Her hair flowed down her back like a river, shining with Yanis’s care.
“You look exquisite,” she said, pressing a small vial into Ro’s hand. “Keep it well and add it to the wine when you have a chance.”
She brightened as she tucked it away in her bodice. “Is it poison? Will it kill him?”
Quickly the other woman shook her head. “It’s a sedative. It should keep Himself from doing you any real harm and it may give you a chance to search his quarters. Be careful! It’s my head if you get caught as I’m the only who’s seen you besides Lucan.”
“I doubt we could blame him.”
“No, indeed. He’s the new favorite. Gossip suggests that he may be posted in the upper tiers soon as a reward for reporting on your return.”
“I hope I never lay eyes on that asshole again,” Rowena muttered.
“Too bad, you’ve got an appointment with him in a few minutes. Tell Chantisse that we’re waiting for her signal.”
It was better that Rowena didn’t know exactly what was in play, because that way she couldn’t give away resistance secrets even if the tyrant tortured her. As she followed Yanis out of the bathhouse, she squared her shoulders.
I will fear nothing. I am not alone. My brothers and sisters are with me in spirit.
Lucan was waiting with ill-concealed impatience when they emerged, and she drew no satisfaction from his awestruck expression or in the yearning that dawned when he took in her transformation. At least he didn’t compliment her, however.
“You’ll do,” he said brusquely.
He escorted her all the way back—past the gardens, the marketplace, up the grand staircase in the piazza, and through the palazzo. Incredible frescos, mosaics on the walls, and beautiful stuccos made Vega Rising memorable, beautiful even, but she hated everything about it, from the gilded frames that housed priceless paintings to the marble floors and columns carved from great plinths, etched with fanciful shapes. People were starving, dying, while Tycho Vega styled himself like a vengeful god. Little had changed here, though there were bare spots, treasures that the tyrant must have destroyed in a fit of rage and never replaced. The Vega fortune must be dwindling, as trade suffered and there was no economic growth during wartime, when all resources were funneled to feed a petty dictator’s ego.
And here we are.
She’d distracted herself all the way to Tycho’s door, but she would recognize the ornate, faintly disturbing inlays anywhere. Fine mahogany wood, etched in gilt, people being trampled and impaled in the most baroque style. She shivered and drew herself upright as the door swung open. Lucan wheeled without another word, delivering her like a package. Probably, he didn’t want to be caught in the fallout if the tyrant was enraged, his default state these days.
Rowena entered like a queen, as if this was her choice. Everything was as it had been the last time she saw the suite, all shades of blue and gold, ostentatious opulence offered to one who had no appreciation. Selling the massive four-poster bed alone would feed a family in the undercity for ten years or longer. Lavish silk carpets and hand-woven tapestries, a jumble of incomparable objets d’art. The room assaulted with its décor, insisting that she acknowledge how expensive everything was and yet as a whole, it was the least harmonious space she’d ever entered. Too much altogether, but somehow never enough to satisfy Tycho Vega.
Framing his actual name in her head felt like a small heresy. Citizens of Golgerra were never allowed to speak it.
The door to his private study creaked outward, a small sign of neglect on the hinges that once would’ve had him raging and threatening to have his steward flogged. Now it seemed that the tyrant saved his rage for other matters.
Like me.
Then he stepped into view, her hated one, her oldest tormentor.
He looks tired.
Rowena wished she hadn’t noticed. It didn’t matter that monsters could run down, could develop dark shadows and a faintly hunted air, as if on some level, he sensed that his days were numbered. Tycho was still tall and fit, still fair-haired and green eyed, handsome with a cruelly callous edge. His eyes were flat like glass, and when he registered her presence, a slow smile curved his thin mouth.
“Rowena. At last you’ve come back to me.”
Slay might crawl out of his own skin if Ro didn’t return soon.
The hours crept even when he was working the machine. The supervisor dozed on a stool in the corner of the room, someone sent from upper Golgerra to ensure that the prisoners met their quotas. He took care not to pay any attention to Kani; she didn’t need the extra scrutiny, as guards still watched Slay warily. His constant trips to the hole had earned him a reputation.
Things went a little faster after his shift ended. The resistance trusted him a bit, enough to assign him some recon work. Stalking was different here than hunting outdoors and he couldn’t shift. That lack was starting to wear on him, the jaguar part of him trapped and desperate for release. He tried not brood over what would happen when he could finally change. Likely it wouldn’t be pretty and the great cat would run amok.