Beyond the Red Page 11

  Eros groans. “Kora—”

  “I know it’s not safe and I understand your hesitation, but I need to see what’s happening. We won’t get involved. We’ll look, then leave. Okay?”

  “Are you asking me? Because if you’re asking me, then it’s not okay.”

  I smile my sweetest smile. “I’m not asking.”

  Eros shakes his head and gestures forward. “Then lead the way.”

  If the smoke and the dust cloud stirred up by the blast hadn’t led us right to them, the screaming and angry chanting would have.

  We walk quickly through the winding streets, Eros as stiff as a board beside me and clearly unhappy. Not that I can blame him. This isn’t exactly my best idea—and sha, it could be dangerous, especially for me, but I have to see it. I have to know for sure.

  And then I do see it, and despite the heat pouring from the flames and the suns above us, I’m chillingly cold.

  My people have set me on fire.

  Well, not me of course, but my representation. It’s highly disrespectful to create idols in anyone’s image—even Kala’s—but every Avra and person of influence has some sort of token to represent them. For Alara and Oro d’Inara—the founders of our faith—it’s a large sword for Oro, who was a wise warrior, and a kazim for Alara, who always had one at her side.

  I chose my token a cycle before I took the throne, on the set of my fourteenth lifecycle—a beautiful golden book containing the histories of our nation. It was inscribed by hand by my ancestors and placed outside the history center in a protective glass case the set I took the throne.

  Now the whole center is a raging inferno, and all that’s left of the case and the golden book is broken glass and burnt black crisps of curled paper.

  Hundreds of people are crowded outside the burning center as guides zip around the scene, recording everything. They carry signs that read THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO TRADITION and WHERE IS THE ALMIGHTY AVRA NOW? and my stomach churns as the heat of the flames washes over me in an unending wave.

  They hate me.

  This isn’t just dislike—they’re burning the history center as some kind of display of how I’ve destroyed tradition. They’re screaming my name and calling for me to step down.

  Nothing I can say will help this. I’ve long passed the point of soothing them with words—I just never realized how bad it was.

  “Okay,” Eros says softly. “You’ve seen. Now let’s go before the guards get here and see you—or someone recognizes you.”

  He’s right. It’s not safe here. If anyone recognized me, I’d be dead. And yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the raging orange flames spewing pillars of black smoke into the sky. I can’t look away from my people, their anger radiating off them like the heat of the fires.

  I’m such a failure.

  Eros grabs my arm and pulls me away. I’m too numb to protest.

  We leave the burning far behind us as soldiers race to the scene, and we walk until the suns are high above us, their heat soaking into our clothes and broiling our skin. Sweat drips down my temples and between my shoulder blades, and beneath my hood, my hair is plastered to my skin like paint. Eros’s black shirt is so soaked it’s actually dripping onto the paveway, but he doesn’t complain.

  I find the brew and spice place where Dima and I binge drank so long ago—it’s in a now-depressed part of the city, where all the buildings are boarded up or burnt down and the streets are so littered with trash, sewage, and glass that Eros and I can’t enter it without risking injury. But even despite the wreckage and the stink of rotting garbage, people move through the streets and lean against the buildings, leering at us. It’s the first time we’ve seen anyone linger on the streets during our visit, save for the protest outside the burning center.

  I rub my arms and inhale deeply through my nose as the echoes of their chants wash over me. Dima said they want me dead, and he’s right.

  A few children play in the trash; dressed in threadbare clothes, sand coating their skin and gathering in clumps in their hair. A little girl wearing a tattered dress sewn together with random scraps of fabric picks up a discarded twisted mass of metal that may have once been a steering unit, holds it to her chest, and runs. An equally dirty boy chases her, and her giggles fill the air.

  I’d known there were problems in the city. I’d known about the riots and unrest, about the violence that drove away commerce and kept visitors down to a trickle. I’d known people were angry since I took the throne, since our city was attacked and our people were killed without retribution. I’d known Eljans were losing confidence in me as a ruler. I’d known they’d always preferred Dima, that nothing I did helped because it would never be as good as what they imagined my brother doing.

  I’d known all that, but I never realized just how badly the city was deteriorating. I’d spent all this time bitter that they wouldn’t accept me without stopping to think whether it was possible I deserved their judgment.

  But I can’t blame anyone for allowing Vejla to reach this state. While I was cowering in the palace, trying to get over my grief and fear, my city was falling apart and I did nothing. And if the capital is this bad, what’s happened to the rest of the territory?

  This is my responsibility. I have to fix this. I will fix this.

  “C’mon.” Eros touches my arm. “I don’t like the way those people are looking at us. We shouldn’t be here.”

  I nod and turn away, but I’ve barely taken two steps before someone shouts behind us.

  “Avra!”

  The voice is light, like a child’s, but loud. It echoes down the street and sends a chill down my back.

  “Don’t stop.” Eros nudges me forward. “Keep walking.”

  I do as he says, but my heart is clambering into my throat and the voices don’t stop.

  “Avra!”

  “It’s her! Look, it’s ken Avra!”

  A child runs in front of Eros and me, and I stop quickly to avoid knocking her over. It’s the little girl in the tattered dress I saw earlier, though she’s no longer carrying that hunk of garbage.

  She grabs the edges of her dress and smiles shyly, twisting slightly back and forth, like she might twirl, but keeps changing her mind.

  “Or’jiva, el Avra,” she greets, giggling.

  Eros goes stiff next to me. There are others behind us—I can feel their eyes on my back as I stare at this little girl, unsure of how to respond. I’ve never really interacted with a child before—what am I supposed to do?

  “Or’jiva,” I respond carefully. “What’s your name?”

  My skin is prickling with the pressure of stares. The suns have never been so warm and Eros is frozen next to me. Even though it’s just a little girl, I can’t help but feel as though I’m walking along the edge of a cliff, and if I say or do the wrong thing, someone will push me into the chasm.

  The little girl beams. “El ljma si Uljia d’Elja.” She says each word carefully, like she practiced them separately when learning how to introduce herself.

  I smile softly. “Uljia. That’s a very pretty name.”

  Uljia giggles.

  “Kora,” Eros says stiffly. “We really should go.”

  I dare a glance back to see what he’s looking at, and my breath catches. The street behind us is packed with people. Where they appeared from is beyond me, but most of them don’t look pleased to see us.

  Uljia runs away, darting into the crowd. Everyone is watching me, expecting me to say something, do something. But what is there for me to say? Words alone can’t make this better—what do they expect me to do?

  “I’m going to fix this,” I say, but my voice sounds weak, even to me. I clear my throat, take a breath, and pull back my shoulders. “I’ve let this go on for too long, and for that I take responsibility. But I won’t let this continue. I’m going to fix this.”

  Murmurs ripple through the crowd and people turn away, shaking their heads as they return to wherever they came from. The crowd is diss
ipating and the disappointment in their eyes is a hot brand of failure burning me from the inside out; it’s a weight settling on my shoulders, pulling me to the Void.

  “I promise you!” I say desperately as they walk away, muttering to themselves. “Vejla won’t go on like this—I’ll restore this city to the way it was!”

  “Naï,” a wrinkled man with silver hair says, shaking his head as he turns away. “You won’t be on the throne long enough.”

  The dust and stench of the city sticks to me like a second skin. Anja’s eyes widen when Eros and I enter the palace and stalk past her. She mentions something about preparing a bath and runs off, but I have more important things to do than get clean right now.

  I need to speak to my brother.

  I never would have chosen Dima to be my second—the person who was supposed to be my most trusted advisor—had it not been the final thing father asked of me before the attack on my coronation killed him and Mamae. My brother is far from the ideal candidate—he’s always wanted the throne for himself. He’s always resented me for leaving the womb minutes before him ever since he knew what it meant—that I would hold the crown, and he would watch.

  My dear, sweet brother has never forgiven me for being born first. But despite the uneasy feeling I had, even as I spoke the words, I couldn’t bear to dishonor Father’s last request.

  So now, with a formulating plan and the echo of Vejla fresh in my mind, I have to depend on the person I trust the least to make sure changes are made immediately to our capital. I march through the twisting hallways, up and down sets of steps, beyond the dining hall and throne room, preparing myself for the argument that is surely awaiting me. Because even if Dima agrees with my plan, he’ll argue just for the sake of arguing and not feeling subordinate, pleasant boy that he is.

  I reach his bedroom doors and don’t bother knocking—he doesn’t extend me that courtesy, so why should I extend it to him? I push through the double doors and waltz into his room, inhaling as I prepare for my speech.

  And my breath catches in my throat.

  Because my brother is tangled in the silky black sheets of his bed, and tangled with him is not a servant or a pretty girl from the city.

  It’s Jarek.

  I choke on absolutely nothing as Dima bolts upright, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. He pushes Jarek off so quickly that the larger man nearly tumbles off the bed, and he jumps to his feet. My brother is flushed, and naked, and there’s no question as to what I just walked in on.

  “I apologize,” I blurt out, stepping back so quickly that I knock into Eros. “I didn’t realize—I’ll go. It can wait until—”

  Dima screams and lunges toward me. The sound is so raw, so angry, it’s nearly animalistic, and though I know I should move, my legs are anchored to the tile. Someone rushes into me and spins me around, wrapping their strong arms around me, and it’s not Dima.

  Eros. Eros has grabbed me. And I can’t think. I can’t breathe. My brother is screaming behind us and I can’t make out what he’s saying and it sounds like he might be sobbing, but I don’t understand what is happening, I don’t understand why I’m so cold or why my brother just tried to attack me or why he hasn’t reached us.

  I peer over Eros’s shoulder and my gut twists; a prickling heat spills over the chill in my bones. Dima has collapsed on the floor and Jarek has him locked in his arms—though whether to comfort him or hold him back, I can’t tell.

  “Dima,” I say, and Eros’s grip loosens just enough for me to break free. “Dima, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me—”

  “GET OUT!” Dima screams.

  Two words. Two words rip through me and set my soul on fire. Eros grabs my arm and pulls me out, and I think he’s saying something, but all I hear are my brother’s sobs as the doors close behind us.

  “Dima will never forgive me for this.”

  Iro hops on the bed next to me, making the bed sway as he curls up around me and rests his head on my lap, purring deep in his throat. Eros sits on the opposite end of my bed, legs crossed beneath him, and rests his arms on his knees.

  “Okay, well he obviously didn’t want you to find out like that—”

  “You mean at all.”

  “—but as long as you keep their secret, it shouldn’t be a problem. Right?”

  I shake my head and run my fingers through Iro’s soft fur. “It wasn’t my secret to keep to begin with. He clearly didn’t want anyone to know, let alone me.”

  Eros sighs and runs a hand over his skull. “I don’t see what the big deal is. So he likes men, and he and Jarek are apparently together. And?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Is that not a matter of significance with your people?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not encouraged, since we’re trying to grow our numbers, but it’s not discouraged, either. You can’t change who you are, and if it makes you happy … why not?”

  I sigh and trace patterns into Iro’s fur. “It doesn’t bother me, particularly, but most Eljans won’t stand for it. That’s not the case everywhere, of course—in Daïvi, Kel’al, and A’Sharo, for example, lijarae are completely accepted—but here in Elja, they aren’t accepted or respected. If they—or, Kala forbid, the council—were to learn of Dima’s preferences, he’d likely lose his position.”

  Eros frowns. “You can’t help who you fall in love with.”

  “I know,” I say softly. “And I’m so sorry for Dima that he has to hide it. But try explaining that to Elja.”

  “Well … at least he has you supporting him.”

  I bite my lip and clench my fingers in Iro’s fur. But I don’t have to answer, because the truth we both know echoes back at me from Eros’s face.

  My support for Dima won’t be enough for him to forgive this. Nothing will.

  It takes me a while to fall asleep, but when I do, I wish I hadn’t.

  I’m on my bed and he is with me. Not Eros. Midos.

  His lips are on my neck as he traces the pattern of Kala’s mark with his tongue. I grip his long dark hair in my fist and pull him harder against me as his left hand traces my side, slowly sliding lower. My heart races as his kisses work down to my breasts and he sucks softly on the smooth skin there.

  “Midos,” I gasp as his fingers slide up my skirt and trace the markings on my thigh.

  He pauses his kisses to look up at me, his dark eyes glistening. “You’re beautiful,” he says, but I can’t focus on anything except the way his fingers slowly slide higher and lower on my inner thigh, teasing me.

  I shudder and press closer to him and he smiles softly. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs between kisses as he works his way back up until his lips are a breath away from mine.

  His hair tickles my cheek as I whisper, “What’s a shame?”

  Midos’s hand moves up to my scarred shoulder and he caresses it softly, running his fingers over the ugly pink skin. “I think we could’ve been happy.”

  I frown. “You don’t think we’ll be happy?”

  “Well, it’s a little hard to be happy when you’re dead.”

  My heart jolts as ice trickles down my spine. “Dead? Midos, I’m sure you’ll live a long and healthy life …”

  There’s something wrong with the smile that splits his face. “Oh, I might,” he says. “But you won’t.”

  That’s when I see the dagger.

  My eyes snap open and my heart is in my throat. I’m shivering and every part of me is frozen, waiting for the knife to come down, searching the shadows for another threat.

  But nothing’s there, and I’m safe and alive. For now.

  I sit up and pull the covers up to my chin, inhaling deeply through my nose as I steady my heart. Eros shifts beside me and twists to face me. His eyes are heavy with sleep as he blinks slowly through the darkness.

  “Are you all right?” he mumbles in a low, groggy voice.

  I nod, but I’m lying. I shouldn’t have to lie; I should be fine—it was just a nightmar
e, albeit a nightmare based off a terrible memory. But I’m not a child—I should be able to handle night terrors on my own, without looking for someone to comfort me.

  Especially not Eros. Especially not the half-blood who is here under oath, who even in different circumstances would never be an option. This here—sharing a bed with him, turning to him in the night when the terrors keep me awake—this isn’t right. This isn’t normal. This is not the way queens behave with their bodyguards, nor guards with their queens. This is not the way Sepharon behave with half-bloods, nor half-bloods with Sepharon.

  And yet when Eros extends an arm and nods at me, I don’t want to refuse.

  So I don’t. I slip right into place at his side, his heart beating against my ear. He shifts the blankets to keep me covered, wedging the fabric between us so the only skin-on-skin contact is my cheek on his chest and his arm around my shoulders, but it’s enough. Tonight, it’s all I need.

  His warmth envelops me, and the echo of his steady heart and the smooth scent of his skin lulls me back to sleep.

  It’s been forty-three sunsets since Dima’s spoken to me. Or looked at me. Or stood in the same room as me. I tried to apologize, I tried to explain I didn’t think any differently of him, that it made no difference to me who he chose to be with, but he didn’t want to hear it. And I can’t blame him for being angry—it was his secret to share or keep, and I ruined it in a moment of carelessness.

  It’s been forty-three sunsets in which I’ve had to use Anja as a messenger to get anything done, because hurt feelings or not, I still have a responsibility to fulfill. Forty-three sunsets in which I’ve outlined, worried over, and finally began implementing the plan that would hopefully help Vejla recover and stabilize my reign.

  Save for the Dima-not-speaking-to-me part, the first two steps were relatively easy. The night after my visit to the city, I instructed Anja to ask Dima to order a nanite sweep through the city to disintegrate the garbage and establish a stronger military presence to discourage the violence. Jarek—who, it seems, would rather pretend I never walked in on them, which is fine by me—informed me three nights later that both had been done, and I corroborated the information with the feed on my glass.