Page 95 of Eyes of Kings

“This war must end. The realms must be separated. Sinoa Tuoleimi cannot return to rule.”

“Stop,” Calla shrieks. “Let mego!”

Venus Hailira stops in front of her. The expression that notches into her brow is familiar—familial. Her hand reaches out, gracing Calla’s forehead, and in a snap, she sees everything. The heavens, the palace, their king. Her sister wives.

The godling of qi smiles. “This is for your own good.”

Calla is drowning.

She has never experienced this sensation before. Water, rushing up her nose, into her lungs. Her flailing limbs disturb the stationary ground—sediment that has sat undisturbed for decades swirls furiously into the water. Her hand grazes soil. Her foot collides with the plants underwater, her legs caught by tangled runners and dense tendrils. She’s in a ditch. Some drainage ditch, running with disgusting, dirty water.

Calla gasps, fighting to extricate herself. A burst of qi screams from her chest, light flaring through the water, and the runners disintegrate. She pushes herself up, and the ditch was never that deep to begin with, her arms hauling over the sides as she splutters water from her mouth. Her sleeves are loose linen. They’re too short for her. They end at her elbows.

She glances around. A dark field. No crops, no animals. The stars gleam brightly, showing the mountains in the distance. Rincun is unmoving.

She knows exactly where she is. The last place she left herself.

“No,” Calla whispers, clambering out from the puddle. “No nono—”

Fifteen years have passed. Plenty of time to let the insects feast on her birth body, let her bones sink into the soil during the time the empty vessel was abandoned. At the very least, her clothing ought to have disintegrated into dust, but a strange force has kept her protected, just like Sinoa Tuoleimi’s body when they found her in the palace in the mountains.

Calla leans over the puddle. A furious breeze tears through the province, lifting her short hair back. The moon hangs low over the silken night. It casts back her reflection in the water.

An empty vessel is bloodless. An empty vessel slowly heals itself from injury even if it is an insentient thing, just as a plant can regrow its bud. In fifteen years, her vessel has taken it upon itself to age with her, and though her face has changed, her eyes have not. Pure white. A god who is blind to judgment. A god who was cast out from the heavens, taking the last of its untainted qi to assume mortal form.

The godling of greed.

Anton returns to his body in a haze, barely aware that he has left the onslaught. He is exactly where he left himself, curled up next to Calla. Dew has settled over the marsh. An itch starts in his elbows and his knees. Slowly he rises into a sitting position, trying not to make any sudden movements, or else his nausea will overwhelm him.

When he glances over to Calla’s vessel, she remains motionless. Empty.

She lies to him.

The color of the sky has changed. He does not know how long he was under, how long he was caught in that swath of memories and lives. Battle, unending battle. The hour creeps steadily toward dawn, and Calla has not returned. Could his presence in the body have blocked her? He left himself as a vessel next to her, though. She could have slipped into him instead, smacked him across the face, and told him off for wearing her. But she has not returned.

Anton staggers to his feet.

She lies to him.

Again and again and again.

CHAPTER 44

Dawn bleeds over the horizon in Actia Province, crimson red and intemperate. The storms clear. After what rain and hail has pelted across the kingdom, this is a shock.

August’s forces finish setting up around the yamen. It took some time to get through. They expected to find early-morning officials manning the desks. Administrative lieutenants who have been paid well enough over a lifetime of service to withstandsomehardship while the capital is undergoing transition.

Instead, they found disgruntled villagers. Occupying the yamen and mobbing all around it when August’s forces approached. They spat at his guards, then tried to reach for August. If any of them got a hand around him, they would pull for flesh. The Weisannas formed a tight circle to escort him through the mob, and August could tell that they were not expecting this sort of vitriol. The ordinary rural dweller used to be afraid of punishment, familiar with the sight of heads staked outside the yamen. But the soldiers in Actia were gone. As were the generals who took instructions from their councilmember to keep the yamen and its province in line.

The Weisannas were wary. They cautioned August that this felt like rebel activity, and they ought to be careful. They checked each rural dweller after breaking apart their occupation of the yamen, intent on crushing this network before it could grow too strong. But there were no dove tattoos hidden on theirbacks or the sides of their necks. No other indication of Dovetail affiliation—and without a leader to cull, August’s forces could only use manpower to keep the villagers out of the way. There was no time to kill all of them.

Also, it would be a bad look.

As Actia warms the most infinitesimal amount, greeted by the day’s first whisper of sunlight, August finds himself muttering under his breath in annoyance. He sits in Actia’s yamen, but it does not much feel like he has taken Actia.

“Someone is coming,” Otta warns.

It’s time. August straightens up. Whatever is to unfold with this meeting, he pulls the strings. Never should that be forgotten.