Into the Black Page 4

  To the left are more screens, these with what are probably Sepharon news sources. I scan them for something I recognize and find the high palace in Asheron right away. Text scrolls on the bottom of the screen, both the Sephari crescent-like letters and blockier English letters, but I never got a handle on reading either language so I’m not sure what it says.

  Shaw walks past the seated people to a tall woman standing at the front. They hug and speak quietly while the detail stands silently around us and the murmur of low voices works through the room.

  Then the woman stiffens and looks at me, eyes wide for just a mo before she smooths her expression. She’s even darker than Shaw—her skin a smooth, rich black. She’s thin, but strong—and of course, no Sephari markings. Because she’s human. Like everyone here but me.

  She runs a hand over her shaved head, pats Shaw’s shoulder, then walks toward us. “Welcome.” Her voice cuts through the murmur of conversations like a blade. “It’s good to see you, Eros. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  I don’t know what to say. They’ve been waiting a long time for what? Me? I still don’t know who these star-crossed undergrounders are—or why I’ve never heard of a group called the Remnant, or why if they were here all along they didn’t help my people when Kora’s army destroyed everything.

  She steps up to me and extends her arm. “Rani.”

  At camp, they clasp arms and shake once, and it looks like that’s what she’s offering. But that’s something you do with companions, or new acquaintances—not people who have abducted you and your nephew at phaserpoint. I stare her down.

  Rani smiles and drops her arm. “Right, well, I suppose you have a point—these circumstances aren’t ideal. You must be confused and scared …”

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “… or irritated, more like. You’ve probably been through worse, given … everything.”

  I don’t answer. She glances at Mal and blinks, like she’s noticing him for the first time. She smiles at him. “What’s your name?”

  Like last time, Mal mimics my stony silence. Rani laughs and looks at me. “Well he’s too old to be your son, but if I didn’t know better, that’s what I would guess.”

  “What are we doing here?” I finally say. “You didn’t drag us out of the desert at phaserpoint for friendly introductions. What do you want?”

  Rani smiles weakly. “I know we’ve butchered our chance at an amenable introduction, and for that I apologize. But my brother assured me no one was injured—”

  “You nearly buried us alive,” I answer. “Had I been riding any faster, you could have blown us up.”

  Shaw looks at the ceiling and sighs heavily, like he’s getting fed up. The asshole. “That wouldn’t have happened. Like I said, we calculated everything and—”

  “I don’t fucken care,” I cut in. “The only reason I’m here is because you threatened our lives, and I, for one, would like my nephew at least to live a long life.”

  Shaw opens his mouth, but Rani lifts a hand and he shuts up. “I’m sorry about the tactics we had to use to get you here—you have every right to be angry and defensive. If anyone had threatened my family that way, I wouldn’t be in the mood to play nice either.”

  “So get to the point,” I say.

  Rani nods and turns to the seated people. “Put Asheron on front and center.”

  A moment later, the screens blink black, then together they form the feed I was looking at before, except blown up wall-to-wall so it almost looks like we’re standing right in front of the palace.

  “Right.” Rani turns back to me. “So you were headed back to Asheron to take your rightful place on the throne, like your father intended eighteen years ago. We’re not trying to stop you—in fact, we want you to succeed. But it was vital we made you aware of our presence first, because we need to be working together from here on out.”

  I snort. “And I suppose you abduct all the people you want to work with?”

  She smiles weakly. “It’s not usually necessary, but our time was limited. We had to work quickly or risk losing you.”

  “Losing me? You never had me to begin with.”

  Rani’s mouth opens and closes. She bites her lip, then nods. “I understand it seems that way to you.”

  My eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’ve been watching you for a long time, Eros.” She snaps her fingers. “Footage RQ-465.”

  The screens blink black again, then fill with a new image. Nol, leaning toward the screens, his light brown face wrinkled in a frown. My chest aches and heat lodges in the back of my throat and crawls up into my head, stinging my eyes. Nol is dead, I know Nol is dead, and his blond—not white—hair confirms this is an old recording. Really old, at least ten years judging by his smoother face.

  He’s unwrapping a bandage, unraveling a long strip of white as his warm voice fills the room. “In the end, we all become the same”—Mal’s head jerks up at the sound of Nol’s voice—“dust, stars, and—”

  “Turn it off,” I say loudly. My voice is thick with the pain gathering in my throat, in my chest, in my eyes. Rani waves her hand and the screens go black again. But everything I see is red.

  I clench my fists. “What is this? Why do you have that recording?”

  “Like I said,” Rani says softly, “we’ve been watching you for a long time.”

  I am ice. I am fire. I am every explosion replacing my heart and setting my blood ablaze. They’ve been watching me? Which means— “So, what, you’ve been spying on me?”

  “I wouldn’t call it spying—”

  “No? Then what would you fucken call this? You’ve apparently been watching me somehow my whole life—with what, hidden cameras or something?”

  “Not cameras, exactly, no.”

  “Then?”

  She hesitates. “We lost track of you a couple sets ago. This is the last footage we have.”

  New image on the screen, and a voice—my voice, no my scream fills the room. Something is blocking whatever camera they’re using—two large, dark blobs—oh, hands.

  My hands.

  Sephari shouts layer over mine, then a bright light washes out the screen. It’s hard to hear what’s going on, between my agonized screams and the Sepharon yelling at each other, but then the screens go black and I know what happened.

  That was when Kora’s medic, Neja, shot me. When I had a reaction to the nanites Kora’s people injected me with and they nearly blinded me. Because I already had nanites in my system; nanites turning my gold eyes green.

  “The nanites,” I say. “That was you.”

  She nods. “It was. The nanites were multipurpose—they disguised your eyes so no one would recognize you for what you were, and they allowed us to keep tabs on you and make sure you were safe by letting us see what you were seeing and hearing.”

  Her words sink into me one layer at a time.

  She was behind the nanites that changed my eye color.

  Nanites that fed every moment of my life up until a few terms ago to these strangers in an underground bunker.

  Strangers who apparently knew who I was all along.

  “You don’t have the ring.” Rani frowns at my left hand. My stomach twists tighter—she must mean the ring of Sirae, which Serek took from me for safekeeping. The ring I never got back when I had to run.

  But how does she know about it? They’ve been watching me all along, apparently, but I hadn’t discovered the ring until well after the nanites were filtered out of me. Only Kora and Serek knew I had it, unless—

  “Who are you?” My voice comes out hoarse and quiet; the words drag against my throat as her admission sinks deeper and deeper into me.

  She hesitates. “My name is Rani Jakande.”

  “No.” My voice grows stronger, filling my lungs, freezing over the heat burning in my chest. “You said my ‘rightful place on the throne, like my father intended.’ And—and you’ve been fucken watching me my whole life an
d injected me with the nanites and …” My heart pounds. My breath catches and catches and this isn’t—she’s not—

  “Yes,” she says softly. “I knew your father, and I administered the nanites myself when you were an infant.”

  My mind is a whirlwind. My heart is a storm. My breath is a downpour.

  “I’m your mother, Eros.”

  The first royals to arrive are, of course, the last I want to see. Avra Druzja’s eldest son, Jolek da Sekka’l, arrives in his bronze hovercraft in front of the palace shortly after my conversation with Niro. The thin, silver-leafed unaï trees bordering the side courtyard dance in the wind kicked up by the craft as it lowers to the white sand. His men pour out of the sleek aircraft in their customary shiny bronze uniforms, and I brace myself for the slight certain to come.

  The royals of Sekka’l are extraordinarily chauvinistic—which was why I avoided sending an invitation for courtship to his younger brother, Rumen, back when I was Avra and had to find a mate. Jolek won’t be a part of the Emergency Council, however—that would be his grandfather’s role, if his grandfather were still alive. Unlike most of the territories, Avrae da Sekka’l don’t immediately pass on the throne when their eldest turns fifteen; Jolek is in his twenties and still waiting for his father to concede the throne. So, it’s not surprising Sekka’l’s former Avra, who would ordinarily be on the council, has already passed away. Instead, Jolek must be here to mourn and petition for Eros’s spot on the throne.

  Niro steps forward and bows to the Avra-kaï, welcoming him to Asheron and asking him how his trip was—unimportant pleasantries as the men step past me without so much as a glance in my direction. But if they think they’re going to get away with ignoring me, they’re wrong.

  I step in front of them and nod at Jolek. “Avra-kaï Jolek, how are your wife and son? Well, I hope?”

  Jolek’s gaze rolls over me as his lips twist into a grimace. Unlike most of the nations who use tattoos to emphasize Kala’s mark, the Sekka’l burn the markings into their pale skin, leaving raised, white or pink scars in their wake. Jolek’s marks curve around his mouth and under his eyes, and the back of my neck and my scarred arm prickles. I know all too well how painful burns are; while I understand the significance and honor of getting them, the thought of burning yourself intentionally—and on your face no less—churns my stomach.

  Then again, the process of getting markings isn’t much more pleasant, so I shouldn’t judge.

  But rather than addressing me, Jolek looks at Niro. “What is she doing here?”

  Niro opens his mouth to answer, but I cut in instead.

  “I’m here representing Sira-kaï Eros—and I can speak for myself, thank you.”

  Jolek’s face contorts like he’s just smelled something dead, but he finally turns to me. “That half-blood isn’t a Sira-kaï—and even if he were, you certainly wouldn’t be worthy of representing him. It’s incredible you weren’t executed alongside him.”

  Heat rages through me, but I keep my expression calm. “Eros wasn’t executed.”

  “He would have been had those redbloods not interfered.” Jolek steps around me, then pauses and smirks at me. “Maybe it is fitting you two banded together—trash with trash, and when you lose, you’ll be burned together.”

  “Of course,” I answer. “Burned like your traitorous uncle, right? Or was it brother? Sekka’l family history is so complicated with all that disloyalty—was it both your uncle and your brother?”

  Jolek’s face darkens, and he turns on his heel and storms off, Niro tutting after him.

  I smile and turn back to the horizon, the heat in my blood ebbing away to pleasure.

  I can’t make too many enemies here—not when Eros will need all the support he can get. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let the prejudiced royalty who would never support him anyway trample me.

  One royal handled, many more to go.

  By mid-set, most of the royalty have arrived, including much of the Emergency Council, which includes surviving former Avrae from Ona, Inara, Daïvi, Kelal, and A’Sharo. Only the former Sira—Asha, Roma, and Serek’s father—Ashen, has yet to arrive. Which is just as well, as he’s the last person I want to see.

  What am I supposed to say to the father of the man I helped make comatose? And the father of the man I nearly killed by accident, then could do nothing to save as he died in my arms? And what will he think of Eros? Ashen wasn’t a cruel ruler—not like Roma—but he was much more like Roma than he was Asha and Serek. I can’t imagine he’s going to accept Eros, even if I hadn’t been involved in Serek’s death.

  Then there are the kjo like Jolek arriving to presumably place their bid for the throne. After Jolek da Sekka’l, Lejen d’Inara—a religious man from our most pious territory—arrives with his detail of light blue and white-clad guards. Shortly thereafter, two men with piercings in their eyebrows, nose, lips, and all over their ears arrive: Avra-kaï Simos d’Ona and his husband, Ejren. A pang goes through me as they enter, hand-in-hand—as terrible as Dima was to me, I wish Eljans were as accepting as the Onans so my brother never felt the need to hide. But it’s nice to see Simos and Ejren’s open happiness nevertheless.

  After them, Avrae-kjo Sulten and Deimos d’A’Sharo arrive in the black and red colors of their nation, which is interesting—surely they don’t expect to place two bids for the throne? The men speak quietly in the dining hall as servants fan them with large palm fronds, though it does little to cool the oppressive heat.

  I glance at the door, swallowing the tension in my throat, the edge of panic whispering Eros is late. Whispering maybe he isn’t coming.

  I awkwardly pour myself a lukewarm glass of blue ljuma juice one-handed as I glance over the table of Serek’s favorite foods—the second set of mourning requires serving all the favorite meals of the dead. I can’t help but smile faintly at some of the choices: apparently Serek was a big fan of sweets, because many of the options include fruits soaked in pucker-sweet glazes. My breath trembles in my chest as the ache blossoms deeply, stinging my eyes; it’s been only two sets since he passed, and I already miss him dearly.

  I hate being so alone here. I’d grown used to having someone at my side: first Anja, then Eros, and eventually Serek. But I made mistake, after mistake, after mistake, and now … Kala, please let Eros return. For Safara, but also—

  I’m terrified to even think it. But I don’t know what I’ll do if he runs from the throne and I can no longer represent him. I can’t go home. I have no one to turn to. This is the only thing I have left to cling to; I can’t lose it.

  Nearby, the candidates close their circle and continue to ignore me. Continue to pretend Eros isn’t in contention, like he doesn’t have even the remotest chance to take the throne he’s inherited.

  They speak like Eros doesn’t exist at all.

  “I doubt Kel’al will participate,” says Sulten. “Avra Shura’s children are too young to be considered, which only leaves his sister.”

  Simos smirks at his husband, Ejren. “As if that would stop them? I’d be amazed if Avra Riza da Daïvi didnt send one of her sisters, not that any of them have a chance, realistically …”

  Jolek snorts. “Can you imagine? A woman as Sira?”

  “I can imagine it easily,” Ejren answers. “Just perhaps not in our lifetime as men like you still hold power.”

  Someone snickers behind me. I start and spill sticky juice over my hand as I face a handsome kaï with trim stubble and a shock of thick, dark hair. Deimos d’A’Sharo, who evidently didn’t join his brother Sulten in the exclusive circle several paces away.

  Deimos smiles at me. “Now, what’ll really be interesting is when one of the Daïvi sisters arrives. I’d pay good money to see Avra-saï Aleija come head to head with Jolek. Or my brother, for that matter.”

  “It would be entertaining,” I muse, looking him over. “You know, if I didn’t know you were brothers, I’d never have guessed you and Sulten were related.”

  Deimos
laughs, his face lighting up with the sound. “I know—Sulten inherited our mother’s pale northern Invino genes.” He steps closer to me and lowers his voice. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he has to color his hair dark—ordinarily it’s a sickly yellow he hates. Meanwhile, I inherited all the dark and handsome genes.” He grins and winks at me—I can’t help it; I laugh.

  “Seems you inherited the charming genes, too.”

  “Naturally. My brother wouldn’t know charm if it stripped naked and danced the balaika in front of him.” I laugh and Deimos smiles easily. “My mamae likes to tell people the only part of Invino I inherited is my right eye.” He points to the eye, which unlike the left—a mix of light orange, to brown, to deep green—is light blue to gray. That’s not the only asymmetrical part of him; judging by the markings on his arms, those on the left side of his body are rigid and maze-like, with sharp edges and straight, intersecting lines, whereas those on the right are smooth curves with pointed edges, like engraved, pointed teeth.

  “A unique trait,” I say. “It suits you.”

  “Thank you. I agree.” He smiles. “I’d introduce myself, but I suspect you already know who I am.”

  “I do. And I think it’s quite clear to everyone who I am, as well.”

  “That it is.” Deimos glances at the men gathered several paces away. “I’d wager we’re probably the only reasonable ones in this room, save for Simos and Ejren.”