My power.
We sit in taut silence as the final guests take their places. Naja is last to join us. A severe-looking young lizard maid helps her kneel to the King’s other side. The white fox is draped in lapis robes woven through with silver thread, jewels dripping from her furred ears. She doesn’t miss a chance to shoot me a scathing expression, though with the King between us she resists saying anything.
I glare right back. But as with Madam Himura earlier, I notice that something about Naja is off.
It takes me a moment to make the connection. The last time I’d seen Naja was during the journey with Wren and the others to gather allies. She’d ambushed us on our way back from the White Wing’s palace. We’d fought. She’d almost killed me; I’d almost killed her.
There’d been burning grasslands. A flash of silver. Naja’s wild, animal howl as Merrin’s qiang passed cleanly through her arm.
She must have gotten to a shaman too late to save it. That’s why a maid helped her sit, when Naja would usually slice a servant’s hand off for touching her in public. I’d been too delirious to notice her injuries when she captured me weeks later in the desert, and I haven’t seen her since we got back to the palace.
As with the King, I spare her no pity. In another life I might have admired Naja’s ambition. Her singular focus. I even understand her behavior toward me and the other Paper Girls, even if I still think it ugly—she’s a Moon, born already believing in her caste’s superiority. She probably truly believes her treatment of us is fair. But I’ll never forgive her for killing Zelle. Bold, smart, vivacious Zelle, the palace courtesan who taught me even before Wren did how much I am capable of.
Finish it.
Those had been Zelle’s last words to me. And though she was talking about the King, as I take in the grand hall, filled with demons who built this beautiful, abysmal place on the backs of Papers they crushed without a second thought, I know that in order to truly finish it, I can’t stop at taking the King’s life.
I’m going to burn this whole godsdamned place to the ground.
As I’m about to turn back to the table, I spot another familiar face.
Mistress Azami, supervisor of the Night House concubines, where Zelle had worked. She’s one table over. Graying umber hair covers her wiry frame, her features part human, part canine. She’s deep in conversation with a demon at her side. Then one of her dog ears twitches, flicks my way.
She glances up. Inclining her head just the slightest, she catches my gaze from the corner of her eye.
And winks.
It’s brief, but I know it’s meant for me. Because in that instant I’ve remembered something else Zelle told me the last time I saw her alive—Mistress Azami is working for the rebellion, too. She’s the one who helped Kenzo recruit Zelle in the first place.
I take in the glittering hall with fresh eyes. Mistress Azami. Kenzo. The maid who slipped a razor into my hands the night of the Moon Ball. Those in the court who were working with last year’s failed assassins. Invisible as it may be, there’s a whole network here of demons and humans who all want the same things I do and are working secretly with the Hannos to achieve them. If I can get to them, I can find a way to help.
Ever since I returned to the Hidden Palace, I’ve been trying to escape. But what if I could be of more help by fighting the King’s regime from the inside? After all, more clan lords have been killed by poison than a blade. Sometimes, the easiest way to destroy something is to let it rot from within.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a spark of hope.
And with it, a plan.
FIVE
LEI
I’M ANXIOUS TO SPEAK TO MISTRESS AZAMI as soon as possible, but the banquet drags on, course after course brought to our tables without any sign of stopping. Not that I’m complaining. Food is one thing the court has always gotten right, and after one month of imprisonment I relish each delicious chopstickful: soy-marinated ginger root; tamarind duck slivers; oysters glistening in a rich rice-wine sauce. Even the King’s presence barely sours each bite. Luckily, following his lead, none of the other guests at our table speak to me, despite their staring and pointed whispers. The King talks mostly with Naja. No matter how low he keeps his tone, the harsh rasp of his broken voice grates like wasp-buzz, and I hope it hurts him to speak as much as it sounds like it does.
A glass of sake rests untouched beside my bowl. I try to ignore it even as a dark twist of longing uncoils in my belly. What harm would a sip do? One glass, even? Traveling with Wren and the others, I used to drink much more. I know the burn the alcohol would make sliding down my throat. How the world would take on a warm, comforting fuzz that’d make all of this easier. Here, in the midst of all these demons, it’s too tempting to dream about sinking down and away.
In the end, I deter myself by envisioning the cup filled not with sake but with my friends’ and family’s blood. Blood that will be spilled if I don’t stay focused. If I choose to sink instead of to rise.
I must rise. My Birth-blessing word isn’t flight for nothing.
My hand drifts to my neck, brushing bare skin. Naja took away my Birth-blessing pendant when they captured me. I’d woken in the cabin of a sand-ship rocking over the Janese dunes to find both my dagger and pendant gone. The Birth-blessing ritual is the most sacred tradition for all castes, and the thought of Naja’s claws on something so precious to me made me sick. But I guess she waged it too much of a risk. The chain could have been used to strangle her or one of the soldiers—or myself.
Once the last of the plates have been cleared, the musicians finish their song and a pregnant hush falls over the hall.
Two servants rush over. Kneeling, they offer the King their bowed heads for support as he gets to his feet. The heavy drag of hooves on marble as he adjusts his position pricks my nerves. I try to steady my breathing, but it’s difficult with hundreds of demon eyes on me and the King’s shadow casting me in his dark silhouette. To his other side, Naja stares up at him, her silver eyes reverent.
It’s then that I notice the King’s hands. They hang at my eyeline, his furred fingers curled into fists. To demonstrate his power? Suppress his rage?
No, I realize, lips snaking into a gloating smile—to hide that his hands are shaking.
The Demon King of Ikhara is scared.
Triumph soars through my veins. We did that. Zelle, Wren, and me, and every other human and demon who’s stood up to him since, tearing down his soldiers in battles or simply existing. Living, loving, laughing. Defying the darkness he and the court impose on us each day purely by pursuing happiness. By holding on to hope.
“Members of the court. My fellow demons.”