Page 42 of Eyes of Kings

But that is out of the question for as long as Sinoa Tuoleimi is capable of dying and reviving herself a hundred years later. She will steer August Shenzhi until the end of the line.

And as long as August Shenzhi has sway, Anton is not safe.

“Hard to focus on the killing,” Anton says, “when there’s the impending starving.”

Calla’s hair unfurls over her shoulder when she glances at him. It comes again: that sudden tightness in the throat. He’s choked on the sensation several times across the past few days, and he hasn’t been able to work out what it is. For a brief flicker of a second, Calla is very far away, and Anton is surrounded by mist. He is fighting his way out of it. He is without hands, without feet, without sight.

Then he blinks, and everything is normal again.

Back in the alley with Bibi, he worried that the affliction was finally coming to a head and taking his qi away from him… only to realize he was experiencing the work of the Crescents and their block. Could this be the same thing? If it is, why would he alone be sensing it?

“Our problem,” Anton continues, shaking his head to rid himself of the sensation, “is that, in the provinces, August has an army of Weisannas and guards to do his bidding for him, but we do not have the Crescent Societies.”

“Perhaps we could recruit the Dovetail to meet August’s forces. They’d follow the crown.”

“Even if the Dovetail follow the divinely selected,” Anton says, “they have… a few hundred?”

“They’d be more powerful with sigils.”

“As would the Weisannas, who will still outnumber them. The Dovetail are the largest insurgent group in the provinces, but acts of insurgency remain few and far between. We cannot pull an army out of thin air.”

Calla tips her head back. Her crown catches the chandelier overhead, its angry ridges glinting. Her crown is supposed to be an army in and of itself, and it would be—if it weren’t for Otta. Once more, Anton feels somewhat responsible.

Calla’s posture straightens, as though she can hear Anton’s thoughts.

“What is it?” Anton demands.

“If we give Rincun independence, Youlia will also follow suit immediately.”

This again. Anton’s already bristling. “Calla—”

“No, listen to me.” She picks up the marker and draws a slash over Rincun, the line extending long enough to cross into the borderlands. Another slash over Youlia, in the northeast, this line shorter. “Removing Rincun and Youlia from Talin takes out two major trade routes for Actia’s villages, and Actia is always short on supply because desert land doesn’t grow produce. Deprive it now, put those pieces in place, and August will, unexpectedly, find immense trouble securing it. He will meet hungry villagers. Riots for his soldiers to resist. A whole host of problems that scatters his army, becauseourarmy is the province itself.”

Anton considers the gamble. His hackles lower. He understands the disparate parts Calla has set out on the assembly line.

“Deprive Actia Province, and we meet August there to clash at his weakest,” he concludes. Before he voices any approval, he eyes Calla carefully. It bothers him that northern independence was already on her mind before they set out for the attack, and she is only refiguring it again and again until there seems to be away it works. She is too attached to Rincun, perhaps to her own detriment. The correct move for Rincun may not be the correct move for Talin.

But…

“This doesn’t solve the problem of San-Er being blocked from the north.”

“It can,” Calla says. “We’ll send a representative to take the edict of freedom to Rincun directly. Negotiate its independence in exchange for keeping the trade routes open to San-Er.Onlyto San-Er, at least until the war is over.”

Anton leans back. “August will hear about this and switch gears.”

“Not if we send Venus Hailira,” Calla counters, “under the guise of our last loyal councilmember clearing the palace in the mountains. The news stations will spread the word: it is a critical mission during this time, while heretics are claiming to be old gods, wanting a piece of the kingdom. We cannot have someone taking a base there.” She breathes out slowly. “Meanwhile, we make our way to Actia. Only us. We prepare our ambush.”

Anton tries to envision where August is, what August must be doing, how August will perceive the false news when it reaches him. His mind wanders, naturally, to the idea of Otta standing over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. What was it that she said at the base?San-Er killed your father while he was still mortal, but it didn’t kill you.

A cold sensation, dancing along his jaw. Anton blinks, and Calla has leaned close to him, her finger gliding to his chin, lifting his face toward her. At such proximity, he has trouble focusing on his lover. Her features grow murky. Though her irises are a caustic yellow—same as they always are—his vision dances, and for a second, he can only see her eye whites. His pulse jolts. He panics, assuming someone has invaded her. When Anton jerks away, pulling himself out of reach, the chair behind him overturns with a loud clatter.

“Anton!”

His vision clears. It’s only Calla in front of him. Calla, appearing baffled at his behavior.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. Her eyes are yellow.

“Nothing,” Anton says quickly. He can’t shake the image.What’s wrong withyou?he wants to ask in return. “Nothing. I saw a fly.”