From the instant I entered the chamber and saw Caen hanging there, I knew how it was going to end. Before he’d looked at me and told me what to do, simply and clearly, without fanfare, as had always been his way. The decision was foregone. I would not allow them to torture him in front of me. I wouldn’t see him suffer any longer. Him asking me only gave me the confidence to do it.
Escape for him could take only one form.
Do it.
His words shiver over me, so similar to Zelle’s the night of the Moon Ball. I failed her then. I wasn’t going to fail Caen today. Especially not after his parting gift, one I’d been aching for every second of my imprisonment, ever since I watched silver blades flash in a storm of ruby and black.
She is safe. They are all safe.
I lie on the floor of my room for hours, not moving from where Commander Razib flung me. Before leaving the underground chamber, the King’s shamans wove a dao to vanish me from view so the rest of the palace wouldn’t see the state I was in. I must have looked like the stuff of nightmares. A limp, dead-eyed girl covered head to toe in blood. Though the enchantment is long gone, I envision it strengthening instead, so I fade away a little more with each passing moment until eventually there’ll be nothing of me left at all.
If only it were that easy to disappear. To hide from yourself.
I’ve killed before—but only in defense, in times of battle or danger. Demons I’d hated, or who hated me. This was different. More necessary, more important perhaps than any of those, but a thousand times more terrible. No matter how much I tell myself it was a mercy, I can’t shed the sickening blame that makes me want to plunge a hand inside my chest and rip out my traitorous heart.
The light drains from the room until I’m left in darkness, broken only by shafts of moonlight from the open windows. I still don’t move, lying in a jumble of limbs, spent, emptied, alone.
I’ve passed so many nights this way since my return to the palace, yet tonight more than ever I long for Wren. To have her strong arms wrap around me. The touch of her steady hands. Her comforting words. The ocean scent of her skin never fails to calm me, or light me on fire in the best possible way.
Mostly, I crave her understanding—even though I wouldn’t give her my own.
A memory hits, powerfully vivid. The desert night. The Amala’s ground-ship skating over the dark dunes, its whooshing burr filling the quiet. Stars sparkling overhead. Kneeling face-to-face with Wren at the back of the ship, Hiro’s Birth-blessing pendant clutched in her hands, its golden casing catching the moonlight.
We had the same word. Hiro and I were kinyu.
What is it? Your word?
Sacrifice.
“Wren,” I whisper now, tilting my face toward the window where silver light drapes over the rattan mat like the silk of a mourning shroud. Knowing she is alive has calmed one part of me but awoken another. Replaced the pain of not knowing with the pain of knowing and not being able to do anything about it.
I don’t know which is worse.
“Wren? Is this what it feels like? Sacrifice?”
She doesn’t answer. No one does.
My arm falls to the floor, bloodied palm up, fingers open. Waiting, waiting for something.
Someone.
I watch the moonlight glide slowly across the floor until it’s eventually replaced by the soft light of another spring morning. Outside, birds begin to sing.
My palm remains empty.
My question unanswered.
The room is warm and filled with noonday sunshine when I’m jerked alert by a burst of noise.
I scrabble away from the door where it’s slid open. It’s the first time I’ve moved since we got back from the dungeon, and I sway, head swimming as people file into the room. From my low position, all I see are swishing skirts; the flash of a bare calf from ragged robes. Hushed voices murmur above me.
Hushed, familiar voices.
I rub my eyes—forgetting my hand is caked in dried blood. I blink frantically to clear them, and as if from within a dream I hear a girl’s gasp and more muttering, agitated now rather than nervous.
“Is she—”
“What happened—”
“Oh, Lei…”
“Look at this mess!” Madam Himura cries shrilly. “Blood everywhere! As if I didn’t have enough work, now I’ll have to get the mat replaced, too. Girls—fetch the tub. This abomination is going to take all afternoon to clean. You’d better get started.”
“But M-Madam Himura.” The girl’s voice is barely a whisper, but I’d recognize it anywhere. My heart lurches. “Sh-she’s hurt. Shouldn’t she see a doctor…?”
There’s a flurry of movement. The sound of a cane-crack ricochets through the air.
“Do not talk back to me, stupid girl! You’re not a Paper Girl anymore. Gods know why the King has decided to keep the five of you around, but do not forget your new status. Lei-zhi here”—disgust etches her voice to speak my name with respect—“is the Moonchosen, and you are her maids. You are to look after her and ensure this kind of mess never happens again.”
Past Madam Himura, I spot the glint of gold on pale skin. She’s grabbed one of the girls’ wrists. She turns it, and the girl it belongs to inhales sharply.
“Isn’t this enough of a reminder? Your fate is tied to Lei-zhi, Aoki. So you’d better remind her to be more considerate of others before she acts so recklessly, or next time you won’t only injure your hand. You’ll lose the whole thing.”
She tosses the girl aside. Then she’s upon me, dragging me to my feet. Piercing yellow eyes fill my vision as she draws me close.
“Let us be clear about this, Lei-zhi. None of us are happy you are still alive after that stunt you pulled yesterday—least of all the King. But it’s too late to turn back now. Your path at his side has been set by the gods, and we must follow its course through to the end. No matter how reluctantly.” She studies me, feathers bridling with scorn. “Keeda really is the right word for your kind. Only worms continue to persist in the face of such odds and despite such a repugnant lack of talent or power. Yet even parasites cannot survive forever. One day, you’ll return to the ground from which you came, and we shall finally be free of you.”
She lets me go, and I stagger, reeling from her malice.
“Shamans will come by in an hour to heal Lei-zhi’s wound,” Madam Himura barks at the ragged-clothed girls standing in a huddle. “Have her ready by then. She must look flawless. The rest of the court is not to know what happened yesterday.” Then, with one final sneer, she sweeps from the room.
After the door slams shut, none of us move or speak—not me, nor the five girls still gaping at me. Madam Himura’s musky scent hangs in the air, making this feel even more like we’ve been thrown back in time, though it’s clear we’ve all changed, each one of us marked by the months since we last saw each other.
Finally, one of the girls comes forward. Lank locks hang around knifelike cheekbones, the deep azure tint of her hair noticeable when she jerks her chin and it catches the light.
“No hug?” she says. “No kisses? This isn’t the sort of warm reunion I was expecting from you, Nine.”