Page 87 of Eyes of Kings

“Trust me, I tried,” Anton says. His voice is hollow. “We need to talk about you, Calla.”

CHAPTER 39

You didn’t consult me, and look what’s happened.”

Otta returns to his front line furious, which is salt on the wound when August himself is barely keeping it together. His forces reached Ximili Province earlier than expected. August had pushed hard through Laho, anticipating attacks from rural insurgents, but the path was clear from end to end. Which only made August all the more nervous, because what were the Dovetail planning, then? It’s not as though he paid them off this time. They have gone quiet of their own volition. That would already be unusual enough, but especially during a time when the kingdom is grappling with not only royals from the capital, but all sorts of uncanny people rising from the pantheon of old gods.

“I didn’t sleep last night, and I doubt I will tonight,” August says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “so I would appreciate it if you refrained from raising your voice.”

“Are you taking this seriously, August?” Otta demands. “Or are you throwing away your claim to the throne?”

August slaps his hand onto the table. The noise worsens his migraine instantly, drilling between his ears, squirming underneath his scalp. The tent and its table, its cot, its chairs are all makeshift furnishings that fit into their thin camp bags. Always sopping wet while they hang from the horses’ saddles, needing anhour of airing before the tents are bearable for overnight stay without carrying the stench of a musty dog. A makeshift table cannot withstand his anger, and the joints where the legs fold threaten to give.

Without warning, August stands. He shoves the table across the tent.

“Iacted off information I received,” he seethes. “But there is a rat at the camp. Calla and Anton were in Kelitu. There isn’t a chance that word spread quickly enough about the blockade in Janton. They would have needed to leave the moment our forces set off. Someone fed the information to them directly.”

Otta folds her arms, frowning. She does not resemble the rest of them, him and his forces, marching nonstop in the grimy rain, hastening through the rural provinces persistently looking over their shoulders and giving themselves a neck crick. She has washed her face. Brushed her hair. Not a fleck of dirt stains her palace silks, her long sleeves and the sash that slings between her elbows.

“Were there survivors?” Otta asks. “The news I heard claimed it was everyone.”

August tries not to count. Tries not to envision how sparse his defense line would be if Calla suddenly appeared in Ximili right now.

“It was everyone. Calla was jumping. Scouts reported back that every wound at the camp appeared self-inflicted.”

Otta breathes out. Despite the bravado she puts up, even she looks disturbed when she goes to the chair that August vacated. She sits herself down, crossing one leg over the other. The only dissonant part of her appearance is her shoes—a pair of white plimsolls with laces. There’s mud staining one end of the shoelace, and noticing it, Otta reaches to tuck it inside the shoe.

“Can you do that?” August demands. “Or yoursoldiers?”

“Not that quickly,” Otta replies. Her jaw feathers. “Invading a Weisanna requires an enormous surge of qi. Heavenly qi.”

Fuck. August folds his arms. They can’t proceed with his original intentions. Not if Calla and Anton are on his heels like this.

“They have your Weisanna too.”

Otta is trying to incite a reaction, but August does not give it to her. He is well practiced in this regard, a custom that the nobility equally understand. His invulnerability is not a certain thing, and asserting his detachment is the only way to keep his belongings safe. As a child, if he liked a toy too much, someone else would have taken it by the next day. Any family jostling for an open position on the council should never declare which province their sights are set upon, or else five others will have declared the next day that they would quite like to govern that province too.

“I am aware of Galipei’s detainment,” he says.

“Do you not worry?” Otta asks. “You would be smart to send a hired man. Quiet him before he offers any information.”

“He has nothing to offer.”

She huffs, indignant.

“Here you are, concerned about the rat in your forces while you’re letting your rat run free in the capital.”

“Leave it alone. I mean it.”

Otta sighs, throwing her head against the back of the seat.

“Whereareyour recruited soldiers?” August asks, taking the chance to steer the conversation away.

“Awaiting instructions,” she returns. “They’re in Ximili already, don’t worry. They’ll come when they’re needed, but not before then. Heavens knows that you keep switching the campaign. This plan one second, another plan the next. What’s next, August? Will you refuse to rule alongside me too?”

August needs to play this very carefully. His sister is callous. His sister is flighty. And his sister is Sinoa Tuoleimi, who would have rather sacrificed hundreds of her civilians, disrupted the very qi of their world, than accept defeatagainst her brothers a hundred years ago. To think that her misdeed was so great that Kasa’s forefathers were forced to scrub it entirely from their books, inventing make-believe just so that they could prevent the risk of anyone else ever trying the same.

“Calla is going to target us in Actia,” August says, “and she will kill us.”