Somewhere deep inside, a current of pity stirs, but she chokes it until it dies. “Very well,” she says. “But we leave in five minutes. The Tuanu retreat was likely tactical. We need to be gone before they return with reinforcements.” And then she walks toward the water to stare into the horizon.
Her thoughts have already left the beach and are many miles away, with the Yerezi boy. It’ll be a risk to chase him deeper into the Yontai. The high mystics have coven acolytes spread across the kingdom, and one of them might detect her. Not to mention the boy’s Void-wielding shadow, who she’s certain is already aware of her.
She’ll have to be cautious and patient. Bide her time.
“We are ready, Maidservant,” comes a voice behind her. She turns around and sees the somber captain standing with his surviving men, the bloodlust still burning in their eyes despite their near brush with death—or perhaps because of it.
Something black and monstrous coils inside the Maidservant, a strong desire to shred these men into a red paste, but she diverts her hatred into her shards. They ignite with the moon’s power, and she sends them all into the Void.
38: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
In a hallowed temple where rubies twinkle on every wall and gold gleams so abundantly as to be worthless, a king strides resolutely down a long hallway and knocks on a high priest’s door.
She has worn one of her best garments—formfitting, strapless, and ivory as pearls, with delicate swirling patterns that shimmer like gold. Her hair has been plaited into thick braids interlaced with golden strands. An intricate gorget of colorful, concentrically arranged beads frames her face, which she has painted with the understated wickedness of a girl who knows things other girls do not.
She is a mortal king about to beg favor from a god, a young woman eager to take her destiny into her own hands, and she has tried her damned best to look the part.
The door opens to reveal Itani Faro’s lanky form, dressed in a loose crimson boubou and soft slippers. With that smoking pipe pressed between his lips, he might have appeared benignly old, perhaps even grandfatherly, but the maze of scarified designs running across his face leaves no doubt as to what he truly is. It’s also in his bearing and his dark, knowing eyes and the way they see past the material world to the truth hidden beneath.
She came here as a proud king, but the instant she looks into those eyes, she knows he sees her for what she truly is: a little girl, liar, pretender.
“My soul,” she says to him. “I will offer you my soul if you help me banish the marks and end the clans.”
A question has been plaguing her in her dreams of late: How can a game piece on a board ever claim to be powerful when it is but a slave to the hand that moves it? This morning she awoke with the answer: a game piece can never speak for itself, but a king can kneel before a god and beg for mercy.
The god before her gives her a hard, long look, then steps aside, gesturing into the room with his pipe. Suppressing a sigh of relief, Isa walks in and takes a moment to be surprised by her surroundings.
Instead of a barren chamber with ruby lights and impersonal golden ornamentation, the Arc’s suite of rooms is rather cozy: warm crystal lamps like little drops of sunrise, Dulama rugs with thick piles, couches with plush upholstery, the sweet scent of incense coiling in the air. Not quite luxurious as much as it is comfortable. And surprisingly human.
She turns to face him and puts on a polite smile. “Your home is lovely, Your Worship.”
The other six Faros have grand palaces in Skytown, but the Arc has lived in the Red Temple for as long as she can remember. These rooms are his home, and though she wasn’t sure what she expected, this certainly wasn’t it. What does it mean that gods live as we do?
“Take a seat, Your Majesty.” The Arc motions her to the sofas, where he sits across from her and tortures her with a long silence while he smokes and stares at her. Finally he says, “Would you like something to drink?”
Isa clasps her hands together on her lap. She suddenly feels silly for dressing up so ostentatiously in these rather modest chambers. “I’m fine, Your Worship.”
“I don’t usually invite people in,” he says. “Mostly because people don’t usually come knocking.”
She knows she should probably apologize, but what’s done is done. “I wouldn’t have come if I felt I had a choice.”
“You would sacrifice eternity to save your people.” Not a question. Not really. Simply an observation he’s made, and if Itani Faro has seen it in her, then it must be true.
“Without hesitation, Your Worship.”
“Then perhaps you are stronger than I thought.”
Something cold wraps itself around her spine. “Will you accept my offer, then?”
“No.”
The waterfall beneath them is a distant tumbling roar. For a second Isa wishes she could just hurl herself over the edge of the citadel and fall away from the world and all its worries. Then that thought turns to steel in her veins and becomes a searing question: Why not?
Why not risk everything right now, commit herself to this moment? And if she fails, she can at least say that she tried.
She rises to her feet, slowly. The Arc watches her, and she watches him right back. And slowly, she brings her knees to the floor, her hands pressed together in supplication. She, the King of Chains, the Great Elephant who straddles the center of the world and rules its beating heart, kneels on the floor and abases herself before a god. “You could be young again, Your Worship. I know you’ve done it before. I know it is why you have lived for so long. You could live longer still. Take my soul; help me help my people.”
And what does the god do in the face of such a humble, desperate plea?
He laughs.
The Arc’s hollow laugh fills the charmingly comfortable rooms, joining the tumbling waterfall to mock Isa for her foolishness, her sheer stupidity, that she could so openly accuse a Faro of partaking in such a revolting ritual.
She should know better. The things the Shirika do to prolong their lives might be open secrets, but no one, not even a king, should speak of them.
Isa’s cheeks burn with shame, and her vision clouds over with tears.
“You are a brave woman, Your Majesty.” And the tone of his voice says what he leaves unsaid: I have killed many others for slights much less than this. You have no idea how close to death you came. “But your offer is pointless.”
“I understand.”
“Because you will need your soul if this is going to work.”
She looks up at him, confused. His eyes hold no malice but pleasant surprise.
“It seems I severely underestimated your resolve. Perhaps you are courageous enough to do what is necessary.”
Tentatively, she dares to hope. “So . . . you will help me?”
“I will try,” he says. “I have always wanted to help your people, Your Majesty. I just didn’t think you could handle the responsibility, and I could not countenance forcing it upon you. But it is clear to me that I was mistaken.” Setting his pipe on the low table between them, he rises to his feet and motions her to do the same. “Come. There is something I must show you.”
Mechanically, detached from her reality, she does as she’s told and follows him out the door.