Page 96 of Eyes of Kings

“Clear the room,” August commands. “Otta, stay out of sight. Everyone else, join the guard line.”

“Your Majesty,” Marra Weisanna says. “I would strongly urge you to keep someone in the room. For protection.”

August shakes his head. “It is a meeting performed in good faith,” he says. “We cannot engage in ceasefire unless my every weapon has been deposited. Isn’t that right?”

In answer, Otta flounces away from the window and exits first. Her dress trails after her. Marra does not hold back her frown. But she understands that there must be something at work if Otta Avia makes no fuss, so she nods and she steps back.

The Weisannas exit the yamen. It leaves August seated in the main office, surrounded by desks and folders. He laces his fingers over his stomach. When he leans back in his chair, he forces himself to shed any hint of strain. Focus on his feet—let them meld to the floor. His legs, next. Straight and pointed forward. His torso, where his heartbeat slows. Then his arms, until he is aware of his fingertips, aware of how each of them is pressed to some other part of his body so that they do not act rogue. His head adjusts last. The correct tilt of his chin. The conscious set of his expression. Over recent years it became easier to holdhimself just right, because he knew the angle in which a princely crown set upon his temple would not slide around.

He breathes out.

Footsteps, along the path. August calls, “There are no forces in here, so leave any of yours outside too.”

A soft rustling, by the yamen entrance. The dew of the grass, being brushed aside. There was less ruckus than August expected. He thought the rural dwellers posted around the exterior would begin screaming again.

“Lucky for you,” Anton says when he enters the yamen, “it’s just me.”

August sits up. No. That wasnotthe plan.

“Where is Calla?” he demands.

“She didn’t want to come. She sent me instead.”

Anton’s hands are in his pockets. August watches him, and suddenly tension returns to every place he had worked to rid of it. It is always Anton Makusa that incites this sort of reaction from him. His every defense mechanism was built in his youth precisely because Anton was impossible to compete with. Everything came easily for him.

“There’s no problem, is there?” Anton asks. “We’re out of dignitaries and ambassadors, so a general it is.”

“You are not a general,” August intones. “You are an ill-informed aristocrat with a penchant for insurrection but no competence in ruling.”

Anton shrugs. “Same thing.” He takes a seat at one of the other desks. Keeping himself several paces away from August, facing the perpendicular wall instead.

He looks weathered. As August must too, after the days he has spent marching through his sovereign territory, but there is the addition of mania to Anton’s expression, oozing from his convulsive demeanor and his restless legs. His clothing is dirty, some parts caked with mud. The moment he sits, his knees begin to bounce. Knocking against the underside of the table, jostling the papers. IfAnton were anyone else with less of an ego, all the events of the past few months should indicate something to him. To reach the end of the line, again and again, in the arena, in battle, occupying a throne… and still Anton sticks around, stubborn as a stain. He has always been too much for his own good. And here, it catches up to him.

“You called for this meeting, August,” Anton says. “Has it come time to beg for mercy?”

“I wished to speak toCallato determine how long we will draw out a tiresome campaign,” August replies. “I don’t expect you to understand the magnitude of it, but I do expect her to. The Crescent Societies occupy the capital, where the palace has concentrated its full wealth. Soldiers in just about every province have fled their posts without remuneration. This would have been anarchic enough if it weren’t for theold godsdescending on us and eating up territory like”—August snaps his fingers—“that. Because they can. Because they are powerful. There could be order, but we’re too busy running offense and defense. I haveeverythingit takes to get San-Er in order again, and instead Calla Tuoleimi has shut me out and left me to the fucking provinces, where I’m playing a fool’s game trying to starve out the Crescent Societies. Does that make sense, Anton?”

Anton is unresponsive. He stares at some space right above his hand, as though he’s not even listening. Then he laughs, once.

“You don’t deserve to rule simply because you think you have good ideas, August,” he says. “If you are pushed aside by someone mightier, then that’s life. That’s Talin.”

“Don’t youstartwith me!”

August catches himself by surprise with his outburst. He wants to be even-tempered. He should be past this heinous wrong of Anton invading his body, but Anton did notearnthe power he gained when he did so. He used up August’s time as king, made a right mess of the kingdom, and is August supposed to thinkthat’s lifebecause Anton is mightier?

August takes a breath. Anton watches him, and though August spoke nothing of this tirade aloud, he has a feeling Anton perceived it all the same.

“There are old gods asking for devotion in every province,” August says. “That is a worrying development on its own, but I have scouts up and down the Jinzi River reporting on Dovetail movement too. Rural rebels are expanding past Laho. Operating through Meannin and Teefa by occupying palace barracks.”

“You’re the one who paid the Dovetail to attack the palace soldiers. Of course they’re taking your cue now.”

Yes—he enlisted the Dovetail to sow discord in the provinces just before he took the throne. It should have caused the perfect storm for him to seize control as king and go over the flailing council. Instead, Anton Makusa had worn his body, Anton Makusa had completely disregarded the opportunity, and the Dovetail found that they quite liked taking advantage of palace resources.

“I have long lost communication with the Dovetail,” August seethes.

“I can tell.” Anton points over his shoulder. “The frenzy outside must be spurred by Dovetail instructions.”

Control. He must exhibit control. Carefully, August focuses on his feet again, placing them flat on the floorboards. His heart thuds in double time.