Page 38 of Eyes of Kings

“What’s the face? You’re wincing like you got caught shitting in the bed.”

Calla turns slowly.

“That’s disgusting,” Bibi replies. Slowly, she unfolds her arms, letting her jacket hang loose. “Look, I handed over our father’s letters as my entry into the twin cities. Chief among them were the blueprints that our mother initially drew for the Dovetail—”

“That’s not true,” Anton interrupts. “It’s palace propaganda.”

Bibi blinks. “No, it’s not.”

“Our parents were not secret insurgents.”

“Yes, they were. Why do you think King Kasa orchestrated that attack?”

Calla wishes she had thought to wander off a minute ago. Then she wouldn’t have to bear witness to this uncomfortable family squabble.

“I don’t know, Bibi, because he killed people whenever he liked? Why would Father want to incite a coup—”

“I can’t claim to knowwhy, because he didn’t write a journal explaining his every consideration for his children to read in the event of his death,” Bibi says, her voice edging into mocking. “But he was communicating with the Dovetail for some time, and it got him killed. When I was recruited, the first thing the elders did was show me his letters. They hoped I could follow in his footsteps. I was a Makusa, and I had big shoes to fill.”

“That’s—”

“Why would the Dovetail follow a noble?” Calla asks.

With the way both Anton and Bibi jolt, they might have forgotten she was standing there quietly. The scorched building groans, its beds of cinders lifting with each gust of wind spinning into the alley.

Bibi scrubs her eyes. “If Anton would let me finish,” she mutters, “I was going to say that I brought in blueprints, but they weren’t the most valuable intelligence among Father’s letters. He was offering the Dovetail an inventory of sigils too. In exchange for their loyalty, he provided a lost language. Of course they would follow him.”

Something still seems peculiar. The Dovetail are rural dwellers; they are different from the Crescents of the capital. Calla cannot claim to be particularly familiar with the Dovetail, but she is familiar with the provinces. She has read the reports detailing how many temples remain standing, how many shrines burn steady. Just these last few days, she has witnessed Bibi praying beneath her breath, her rural accent changing the shape of her lips in a manner utterly foreign to San-Er.

Out there, at the mercy of the natural world, the Dovetail consider the old gods to reign supreme. The kingdom in its current state, with its councilmembers and provinces and taxes, is an abomination. It removes the natural order between the heavens and earth. So why would the Dovetail take sigils from some noble? Why would they care to wield qi and risk distancing themselves from their precious gods?

“You’re trying to say that you’re responsible for the Crescents having access to new sigils,” Calla says.

Bibi nods. Anton studies his sister closely. He folds his arms.

“Areyou, though?” he asks. Hard to tell whether he’s only playing the contrarian or if he really is this stubborn. “Were the letters Father’s, or were they planted with the Dovetail preceding the attack at the manor?”

“Anton,” Bibi says, annoyed. “King Kasa never wentpublicwith the claim that Father was a rebel launching a coup against the royals. Why would he plant evidence?”

“You don’t know—”

When Calla swivels abruptly, Anton reacts in an instant, pulling a knife. A part of her is pleased that he is attuned to her reaction before anything else, before he, too, registers not an enemy she’s sighted, but thesmell. Something sharp and bitter, heightening across San-Er. Spreading an intangible toxin.

The light behind Anton’s eyes snaps out.

When Calla tries to reach for her qi, her access is blocked, leaving her powerless.

It lasts only a second.

Calla gasps, fighting to fill her lungs when the smell disappears in a snap. Her qi is within reach again. She detects her reserves restoring from the inside out, an acutesloshingreturning to her bones, her muscles, her veins.

Where her reaction is fought internally, Anton lurches and throws both arms against the brick wall behind him. He behaves no differently to Calla’s cat, overwhelmed enough with the situation to warrant lashing out. There’s a vivid flash. Anton, proving to himself that he can control his qi again.

“For heavens’ sake, Anton,” Calla hisses. “Getoutof your sister.”

Wearing Bibi, his eyes flicker around the alley warily. He has brought the yellow backlight with him, hueing his black irises despite the change in body. Before Calla has the time to study the switch—or dare pulling from his qi—Anton complies with her instruction, and another flash takes him back to his own slumped body. He’s sheepish when he lifts onto his elbow, picking himself off the concrete ground. Bibi blinks, making sense of her lapse in time.

“Did you just invade me?” she demands.