Page 45 of Eyes of Kings

“Hmm,” Joselie says, mollified. “That sounds correct.”

Calla had hoped she was wrong. Her stomach drops. She scrubs her forehead. All this time, she was merely riding off a reputation the rest of the kingdom had prescribed her, before she had even raised her sword against the Palace of Heavens. Talinknew. They all knew.

“Joselie,” Calla says. She may as well ask it outright. “Have there always been rumors that I am reborn from a different time?”

Cal-ah. Glory of Her Father.

San-o-ah. Third Spear of Her Father. Those who speak a provincial dialect may brush it off as mere coincidence. The palace has done everything in its power to wipe away its civil war. It has invented a foreign enemy by the name of Sica. It has enforced its language and its rule, suppressed worship and destroyed prayer. But if the story of Sinoa Tuoleimi was preserved at all, then Calla’s birth and naming might seem like a sign.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Joselie says. “If such a tale ever existed, it would be forbidden from being repeated.”

“Hypothetically,” Calla pushes, “could such a tale spread under the palace’s nose as a mere story of backward rural folk?”

“Hypothetically, the Crescent Societies were allowed to maintain their religiosity as a front precisely because they observethe godsas an abstract concept.” Joselie is very good at matching Calla’s exact tone. “They do not believe in true divination. They seek proximity to power. How can one talk about rebirth without divination, Your Majesty? The kings would not tolerate any chatter about their impending deposition. Repeating it means death.”

“It didn’t have to guarantee their deposition.”

Joselie gives her a weighty look. She considers her words carefully.

“A queen reborn uses vengeance as sustenance. A queen reborn expects to burn the complete bloodline of those who once killed her. Of course it guarantees their end.”

Calla’s ears have started to ring. The servants did not believe her some minor god. They were familiar with the pantheon; they knew which gods were assigned to the physical world and which godlings were assigned to intangible ideas. The servants believed her to be something else entirely instead—they assigned motivation to her violence that did not exist.

Theystillthink she is Sinoa. That she has returned to ruin the royal line,when Calla has only obstructed Sinoa Tuoleimi every step of the way. She is no King-Killer.

She’s just another king.

Before her lightheadedness can crumple her, Calla leans against the wall. She breathes, “Thank you for answering my questions.”

Joselie, being no stranger to bizarre behavior from palace residents, goes back to cleaning.

“Of course,” she replies. “You needn’t worry yourself with rumors emerging from San-Er’s innards. Continue doing what you must.”

EvenJoseliebelieves Calla has been channeling the reborn queen this entire time. The sentiment has been present all along, but Calla finally hears it for the first time—this devotion, this unflappable conviction. Joselie assumes that Calla remembers nothing of the past life. Joselie assumes that every move, from the massacre in the Palace of Heavens to Kasa’s death, is the work of century-old vengeance.

Slowly, Calla raises her hand, touching her crown. It is warm. Since she stole this body at eight years old, she has been a part of San-Er’s nobility, interacting little with anyone outside that world. But there are two sides of Talin: one entirely ignorant about the civil war that once ravaged the kingdom, and another that whispered excitedly about a princess namedCalla, resurrected inside the stronghold she once failed to conquer.

The gold shifts underneath her fingertips. As though the crown asks whether she is trying to remove it, bracing to suck every last bit of her qi if she dares. She thought this was what gave her power among the masses in San-Er. But is it divine selection they kneel to, or is it Sinoa Tuoleimi?

A long wail rings outside the palace. Calla jolts at the sound, but Joselie is unconcerned when she glances to the windows. It’s the flood alarms.

“Probably another incident,” she says. “They were ringing all of last night every time someone blew up a building.”

“I’ll be on my way.” Calla wipes off her sleeve. No dust on her jacket, because Joselie has kept these quarters spotless. “Lovely to see you.”

Her pulse is hammering when she trails through the north wing. Despite Joselie’s composure while waving goodbye, Calla has only heard the flood alarms ring at terrible times, and if it isn’t disaster, then it is once again the Crescents up to no good. Calla turns a corner, then backtracks quickly, avoiding a group of them running by, yelling about the wall.

The wall?

“Calla.”

She whirls around, discerning Anton’s voice above the din. His chest heaves, as though he had been running in his haste to find her.

“What is it?” Calla demands.

“Your friend Yilas,” Anton says without prelude. “She was on the surveillance room’s phone line, asking for you, then for me.” He grimaces. “It was hard to parse what she was saying, to be honest, but Chami is in danger. Someone wielding incredible qi just broke through the wall at the westernmost end.”

Calla isn’t quite following. What is Chami doing at the wall? Who is trying to break in when the gates are open?