“But isn’t that your fault? You made him like that. I saw it with my own eyes, you slashed your knife right across his stomach just to see if I was bonded to him! It’s hardly surprising that he turns to violence to make himself feel better.”
“Silas is a casualty of something much greater than him or me, or you for that matter. You probably won’t ever understand.”
“Because his Atmá is the real Voda Heir? Because she was inside his mind the night you tried to kill him—meaning that he knew about her and was keeping her from you, just as you suspected? I understand better than you think, Weston. He told me everything.”
Weston had pulled his attention from the window, his eyes cutting to me and widening, his posture straightening out again.
“He told you all of that?” he repeated, dumbstruck. “Why would he do that?”
“I’ve been told that Silas offered to get close to me for the Klovoda, and I’ve been told that he did it just to punish you, to keep me away from you, because I’m important to you.” Weston nodded in response, and I tried not to roll my eyes. He couldn’t even comprehend Silas doing something to protect another person when there was a more antagonistic alternative for his actions. “Well maybe that’s true,” I lied, “but now that’s exactly what we are. We’re close. I consider him a close friend, as well as the others. They kept me away from you for as long as they could, and I understand why. You aren’t a nice man; you aren’t a nice person. Maybe you’re a good leader, I don’t know and I don’t particularly care. You torture people and tell yourself that there’s a greater purpose for it, you kidnap people and tell yourself that it doesn’t count because they’ve endured worse. You wanted Silas to kill Kingsling; it was written all over your face, not that you really tried to hide it. Kingsling was another casualty of something greater, just like Silas, just like me. And what about your other sons? What about the countless other children you’ve fathered in your quest for a replacement Voda Heir? What about their mothers? What about your own pairs? How many casualties do you deem acceptable losses in your quest for this greater thing?”
I heaved in a deep breath, my headache beginning to ebb away as fury broiled inside of me, rising through my body until I was sure that the fire burned in my retinas, spitting heat at the poor excuse for a man sitting opposite me. He seemed to be at a loss for words, torn between a fury to answer mine and a bafflement at everything I had just spat at him.
“I’ll have to go back to the Komnata tomorrow to find out what they want from me,” I continued, forcing my voice to return to a semblance of calm. Weston was a political man above everything else, and if I wanted to survive him, I needed to play his political games. Scathing him with just how lowly I thought of him had been nice, and it had certainly made me feel better… but it wasn’t going to help my situation. “But what they want from me is different to what you want from me, isn’t it, Weston? That’s why I’m here. Dominic might have been impossible for you to control, but at least he wanted the same things from me as you did. You’re not so sure about the rest of the Klovoda. You aren’t so sure that they’ll accept your casualties, or agree on this greater vision that you’re so obsessed with, isn’t that right?” I didn’t even pause to allow him to confirm or refute my claims, because I could see from the rapidly growing astonishment on his face that I was correct. I forced myself to continue. “You’ve managed to win Yas over, for the most part. That much is obvious—but it’s not just obvious to me, because the rest of the Klovoda can see it, and they don’t like it. They don’t want another Kingsling. So tell me… just out of curiosity… who chooses the Director? Is it you, or is it the Klovoda?”
This time I waited for a response, sinking my teeth into my lower lip to keep from blurting out anything else just to combat the nervous fear that danced around my lingering migraine. Weston fought down his anger, folding his arms loosely and observing me for a short time, before turning to the window again in an impression of feigned nonchalance.
“The Director is chosen by a majority vote,” he informed me evenly. “Everyone in the Klovoda is expected to appoint a favourite. My opinion will be called upon in the event of an even vote.”
He turned his eyes back to me as he finished, the expression in them expectant. He actually seemed to want me to conclude my theory.
“You don’t think Yas will be chosen,” I mused out loud. “You think it will be someone who doesn’t agree with you, so if I am ever taken to the Klovoda, you feel that you need to be the one bringing me there. You would never have allowed me to make contact with them on my own; my business with them is a convenient way for you to assert your claim over me. You want them to acknowledge that I am your test subject, not theirs.”