CHAPTER TWENTY
The Hundred and One will be killed.
They’re just kids, and they’re going to be killed. I know this because I’m watching them train right now—have watched them before—and they will not be able to beat Alexi, Bear, and the warriors I know my brothers have on their side.
It should reassure me, knowing that Max’s force can’t beat Alexi’s, but it doesn’t. They’re not anonymous, faceless soldiers I can calculate the odds on from a distance. They’re faces I see every single day.
Sybilla is on the training field with a handful of them, finishing up their evening session. The sun lamps have switched over to moonlight, the ship rumbles beneath us, and the field is a harsh landscape of rocks, perilous crevices, and short, prickly yellow grass. I’m in a tree, above them; I was reading when they came out and then I stayed to watch.
“Juniper, you’re dead,” Sybilla says in frustration. “I just got you in the back. How many times do I have to remind you to guard your back in battle? You cannot waste time making sure your brothers are okay.”
This is true, but her brothers do the same for her. Ideally none of them would be in a battle because they’ll just worry about one another and get distracted, but they would make an excellent stealth team for quieter, more devious attacks.
I open my mouth to say so but clamp it shut again. I’m not supposed to be making them better.
But what about just keeping them alive, Esmae?
I swear under my breath.
When the session is finished, the Hundred and One bound away with cheerful, youthful exuberance, chattering about what they’re having for dinner and who’s off duty tonight. Only Sybilla remains, collecting stray arrows across the field. She slots them into the practice quiver propped against the trunk of my tree.
“You can come down now,” she says without looking up.
I had a feeling she knew I was there. She looked at the tree far too often. I drop lightly out of the tree.
“What were you hiding up there for, Princess?”
“I was reading, not hiding.”
“And watching us.”
“Yes, that too.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you think? Of them?”
I measure my words, then say, “I think you and Max have done the best you can, but none of you will beat Alexi without better techniques and a lot more practice.”
I watch her to see if she’s insulted, but she only nods. “I know. So does Max. But Rickard can’t teach us and General Saka left. Everyone who is left has already taught us everything they know.” She laughs, short and jagged. “Well. Almost everyone who is left.”
“You want to know why I haven’t offered to teach the Hundred and One,” I say. No use dancing around it.
“No,” says Sybilla. “Max says you didn’t come here to train us. You’re here because it’s your home. You don’t owe us anything. And I agree. You don’t owe us anything. I just don’t understand why you haven’t offered. I saw you teaching one of the kitchen maids how to read the other day. I’ve seen you working on equations with Jemsy. So it makes no sense to me that the one place you haven’t offered anyone any help is here. Battle.”
“You’ve wanted to say this for weeks,” I remark. “You’ve bit your tongue. But I don’t mind. Honestly, Sybilla. Whatever else you have to say, say it.” I’d rather know what I’m facing. If she suspects my allegiances lie elsewhere, I want to know it.
She crosses her arms over her chest, jaw clenched, bracing herself. “No one’s seen you so much as touch a sword or arrow since you got here. I’m starting to wonder if it was all a trick after all. I’ve said it before, but where are your scars? How did you supposedly train under Rickard and yet come away unscathed? Maybe you have no battle skills and that’s why you won’t show anyone what you can do. Maybe you’re not the real Esmae Rey.” I blink, and she rushes on, defensively, “It’s possible, so don’t look at me like that. The gods used to cloak people in the old days by making them look like other people. A god could have done that for you. Maybe Kirrin, god of tricks. He’s on Alexi’s side. He could have sent you here to distract us while the real Esmae fights with Alexi. I know there are holes in this theory, but I can’t think of any other reason why—”
“Sybilla,” I say, almost laughing because I’m so relieved that this is why she doesn’t trust me. This, I can fix. “Stop. Yes, the gods can cloak people. No, I’m not an imposter.”
She kicks at the dirt beneath our feet. “I want to like you, Princess. I do like you. I would gladly be your friend, under different circumstances, but I can’t get past this. I will protect you because it’s my job and I will be courteous to you, but I can’t trust you and now you know why.”
I sigh. “Give me your bow and one of those arrows.”
She’s shocked. She silently hands them over. This is the first time I’ve held an arrow since I fired at a mechanical fish.
I unwind the bowstring, test it, and string the bow again. A small, sharp stab of pain shoots through my hand. I hold it open and show Sybilla the blood on my fingertips.
“Watch,” I say.
In the bright, clear light of the moon lamps above, Sybilla watches as my fingers heal.
She gasps. “How?”
“It’s a long story.”
After a moment she asks, in a softer tone than I’ve ever heard her use before, “Does it hurt every time?”
“Yes.”
“Even after all this time?”
“It doesn’t matter how much time passes. This is why I have no calluses. No scars. I heal too fast.” I pause, then reluctantly add a lie at the end of the truth. “And I haven’t touched a sword or arrow since I got here because I don’t want anyone to see the way I heal.”
She lets out a breath, and with it her entire body seems to soften, losing the taut, suspicious posture she’s always had in my presence. “I’m sorry. I was so sure you were lying to us, but this answers all my questions. Thank you for telling me. Esmae.”
I grin. “So about that part where you’d gladly be my friend . . .”
She laughs. “Does Max know? About this?”
“If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
“Speaking of,” she says.
I look across the field and see Max standing on a palace balcony some distance above us, silhouetted. A woman is at his side.
“Who’s he talking to?” I ask.
“No idea.”
“I’ve never seen her before.” And now that I think about it, that seems to happen an awful lot. “I often see him with people I’ve never seen before, and then I never see them again.”
She chuckles. “Oh, yes, that’s always been his way. No one knows who those people are. They come and they go.”
It’s unusual behavior for a crown prince. Are they spies? Assassins? But why would you talk to your spies in full view of anyone passing by? On the other hand, if they’re just casual acquaintances or friends, why not meet them in a more social setting? And why don’t they ever reappear? It has to be something more secret, yet he’s not afraid of other people seeing his visitors’ faces, which is an odd contradiction.
I scrutinize the balcony some more. Max and the woman are arguing. He makes a gesture of annoyance and strides back inside. The woman follows.
“Hey,” Sybilla says, and I turn back to her. “There’s this fayre down by the river. Great music, lots of food. Do you want to go?”
“I’d love to.”
I’ve only ever left the palace by chariot, but this time we walk. It’s a steep, winding path down into the city, a knotty set of side roads past little red-roofed houses and air vents hidden behind thorns. The woods creep over us, shadows blotting out the lamps. I shiver. The hiss of steel follows us, and every now and then I catch a glimpse of the source: a sword flashing in someone’s hand or two people training with knives.
We go down into Erys, down back alleys, where voices and the clang of steel periodically burst out of windows. The calm electronic voice of the base ship’s systems crackles over hidden intercoms a few times along the way.
“There,” says Sybilla, as we step out of an alley and into a labyrinth of courtyards. “The fayre.”
The courtyards are cobbled, surrounded by gurgling canals from the artificial river and connected by picturesque little bridges. The only knives in sight are the ones used to slice meat, and swords are either absent or sheathed. It’s a glimpse of the Kali beyond the reach of warfare and discipline, a world where mayhem and joy are allowed to thrive. The fayre itself is not unlike the noisy, bustling markets of Wychstar, but smaller and more intimate. Children perform cartwheels across the cobblestones and puppeteers put on a show at the far end of the street. The stalls are crammed with food and trinkets. Somewhere, someone plays melancholy music. Sybilla and I find an empty bench. I wander off to buy us a loaf of warm bread with cheese and walnuts, and when I return, I see that a girl has joined Sybilla at the bench. They seem to know each other. I wait a short distance away so that I don’t interrupt them, but Sybilla doesn’t seem interested in whatever the girl’s asking her. She shakes her head and the girl leaves with a graceful shrug.
“So you said no,” I guess, dropping onto the bench.
She breaks off a piece of bread. “I said no. We’ve been out before and I don’t do second dates. Second dates lead to attachments.”
I smile at her prickly tone. “If you say so.”
“What about you, then? Do you like girls?”
“Boys, I think.” I let a laugh out of my nose. “Not that there’s been many to speak of. There were a couple of boys I liked for a little while on Wychstar, and several sloppy kisses, but romance wasn’t exactly my priority.”
“It’s not mine either,” she says, jumping to her feet. “Let me go get us some drinks. You haven’t yet tried our terrible gooseberry wine, have you?”
She saunters off. I’m tempted to tell her that gooseberry wine is even more terrible when there’s a possibility it might be poisoned, but of course I can’t say that.
I shift my attention back to the fayre, listening to the music, which has shifted from melancholy to something harder, more energetic, defiant. It works its way into my heart like a blade between the ribs.
My watch pulses on my wrist. I slide an earpiece into my left ear and answer the comm. “I’m out in the city, so you may have trouble hearing me.”
“Out in the city?” Rama repeats. “On Kali? Do they do that?”
I grin. “It seems so.”
“Is that music? I can hardly cope with my shock.”
His lazy voice is so comforting, so known, like a favorite story. I describe what I can see, and he tells me he’s hiding from the royal sword master, and we talk like we’re sitting side by side.
“Are you happy there, Ez?” he asks.
I wish that were an easy question to answer. I came to Kali for one reason and one reason only, but there are days when I almost forget about war. In spite of my hatred and mistrust of many of the people around me—hatred and mistrust I’m certain aren’t as vivid as they were a few weeks ago—I like my life here.
I had some idea of what to expect from royal life because I often saw Rama’s brother and sisters busy with their obligations on Wychstar. (Rama himself refused to contribute to tasks he deemed either too strenuous or too tedious, but he would frequently sneak away to read stories to the children at the hospice. He still thinks he’s kept that a secret from me.) I haven’t been surprised by my new responsibilities and I’ve taken to them well. I learn about other realms’ customs and rulers. I help Guinne plan state dinners. I check menus. I visit new babies in the city. I sit in with Elvar and Max in the throne room each afternoon while a steady stream of citizens come to bring gifts of respect or ask for help. Rickard and I drive around Erys in a chariot so he can show me the city. Elvar walks with me in the palace gardens after dinner and tells me stories about my father. Asteroids rock the base ship and starships fly in and out of the shields. And for now, at least, Titania remains safely in the dock.
“Ez?” Rama says again. “Are you still there?”
And then there’s the vision. My supposed death at my brother’s hands. Impossible, absurd, yet nevertheless disturbing. I haven’t told Rama about it, partly because I don’t want Lord Selwyn to find out if he is indeed keeping an eye on my tech, but also because it’s such a bleak idea that I don’t know how to share it with even my best friend.
“I think I could be happy here,” I finally say. “I think I am sometimes. Sometimes I can trick myself into believing this mess will all turn out okay. Sometimes I can ignore the hole in my heart where my mother and brothers should be.” I blink back tears. “Sometimes I even forget I miss you.”
“What a terrible friend you are, you brat.”
“I love you, Rama.”
“And I love you, Esmae.” I can almost see him rolling his eyes, and it makes me grin. “Gah, I wish you’d just come back, you know. There is no one interesting left in this palace. You’ve left, Radha’s left, Ria left years ago, Rodi’s always busy, Father’s perpetually grumpy—”
The fact that his brother is busy or that his other sister left two years ago to study archaeology on Shloka is not new information to me, but I had no idea Princess Radha had left. “Where did Radha go?”
“She’s off doing diplomatic work for Father,” Rama grumbles. “I’m not sure where. He says it’s sensitive information and won’t tell me.”
“That must be enjoyable for you.”
“I object to the amusement in your voice. You know I hate secrets at the best of times.”
“You’ll survive.” Nevertheless, I listen patiently to him as he complains bitterly about his father’s determination to keep secrets from him and the palace cats’ determination to pester him ceaselessly and any number of other inconveniences that annoy him on a daily basis.
It’s not Rama’s fault, but I probably would have seen the shadows sooner if I hadn’t been distracted.
They fall over the courtyard from high above, black like crows, their shape so unnatural that I look up. A pair of starships dart across the sky. They have narrow, pointed wings like curved knives and they’re small, but fast. I’ve seen starships like these in books. They’re called them corpse ships, because that’s what they leave behind.
I say an unceremonious good-bye to Rama and stand. Sybilla returns. Her eyes are on the sky, too, watching the ships slide out of sight. She looks worried.
“Where have they gone?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I run as fast as I can up the thorny wooded paths to the palace. Sybilla is on my heels, but I’m faster, and she doesn’t catch up until I’m already at one of the sentry posts.
“The corpse ships,” I say, breathless and afraid. “Where have they gone? Why have they gone?”
Two sentries look at each other. “I don’t think they’ve gone anywhere, Princess,” says one. “We were told the crews need to train.”
They’re training. I walk away, heart stuttering, and sit on the plinth of a statue by the palace gates. My legs feel wobbly. I look up at the sky and watch the ships with their sharp, wicked wings do another circuit of the city.
No one is about to die yet.
Yet.
“Esmae.” Sybilla’s next to me, her voice not entirely unsympathetic, and I realize how close I’ve come to giving away the truth of my loyalties. “No one begrudges you your concern for your brothers’ lives, but what did you expect? The ships have to train. They have to be ready for when the war comes.”
If the war comes, I want to say. If, not when. War feels so close, an oppressive presence in the air. I want more than ever to win, but more than even that, I want to win quietly. I don’t want to rip my uncle’s throat out anymore; I just want him to go quietly so that Alexi can have his home and crown back. It’s an unrealistic hope that’s doomed to disappointment, but it’s what a few weeks here on Kali have done.
“You don’t really want to see this world burn down in a war, do you?” I ask.
Sybilla scuffs her foot against the ground. “War doesn’t have to burn the whole world down. I don’t want Kali ripped apart, but I’m not afraid of battle. From the very moment I was born, I’ve battled against everything. War is what I do. I don’t know what I’d be without it.”
I think of the way she said she doesn’t do second dates, and I wonder if part of it is because she’s afraid of happiness, of anything that might make her stop fighting for even a minute.
I remember what she told me the day we met, the way she said she had once been one of the unwanted children left to the palace’s care. “Have you always lived here? On Kali?”
There’s no way to really tell. Accents don’t vary much across the planets and space stations of the star system anymore, and centuries of people traveling more or less freely between realms now means a certain kind of name or skin color or other physical feature is not a certain sign of where a person is from.
“My father moved us here six years ago,” she says. “We lived in Sting before that, but then he found work with one of the finest smiths here.” Sybilla pauses, sees the question on my face, and answers. “My mother died when I was born. He never forgave me. As soon as he found out about the queen’s school at the palace, he sent me away. We haven’t seen each other since.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s no wonder she behaves like she’s made of thorns and broken glass.
“I’m not,” she replies. “I have a better life here than I ever had with him. Don’t you feel the same way?”
The abruptness of the question catches me off guard. “I suppose I do have a better life here than I did on Wychstar, but I had Rama when I was there and that counted for a lot.”
“You may not have Prince Rama here, but you have us. And you could make such a difference.”
I think unexpectedly of little Juniper, who keeps dying in training because she’s too busy making sure Jemsy and Henry are okay. I think of the others, a hundred and one faces.
I could teach them a trick or two that could save their lives.
A trick or two that they’ll use against my brothers.
Sybilla is still watching me, and it’s the hopeful look on her face that decides it for me.
“Gather the Hundred and One tomorrow,” I say. And wonder if I’ll live to regret it.