Chapter 7
Before Er’s palace was razed in the absence of its rulers, its throne room looked rather like this one.
The Palace of Heavens was not melded with a coliseum—that is a feature unique to San—but Er did have a balcony that overlooked a small open forum.
Stone pillars hemmed the public square, adorned with red ribbons that trailed to the ground.
When the occasion called for a royal address, the forum filled with spectators, rising to the tips of their toes to peek into the throne room, hoping it was a sign of good luck if the young Princess Calla waved from inside.
After the Palace of Heavens collapsed, the Palace of Earth assumed governance over its twin city—and its items of value.
Calla props her head on her fist, staring at the ink scroll, and she’s almost certain it came from the Palace of Heavens.
There, in the corner. A dot of blood. Didn’t this scroll hang by the thrones, tarnished when she swung her sword?
She remembers the scene. Her frenzy. Metal, bone.
Blood, and its pervading reek of iron—the crimson puddle growing until it hit the edge of the balcony.
She doesn’t remember if she was afraid. If her heart was pounding beneath her ribs or if it was only a bitter cold coating her throat.
Calla pulls her gaze away from the scroll, leaning back.
Despite her short tenure as an advisor in the Palace of Union, she’s spent little time in its throne room.
Especially not upon the throne itself, which is not comfortable in the slightest. The stone is too hard, and its embellishments snag the material of the outer robe that Calla has thrown on.
The floor tiles nearby are all worse for wear, cracked or fissured or entirely gouged clean from the underlayment.
Palace employees have cleaned the debris and scrubbed the room as best they can, but the Crescent Society attacks wanted to do damage.
The red walls gape where its decorative shields and oil paintings have burned away.
The deep-green carpet on the lower level is badly charred, losing its color entirely.
And still, Calla decided that this would be their best meeting place.
The throne room remains in King Kasa’s image—spilling with excess, garnished without reason.
Its ceilings crane high; its overindulgence acts as enclosure.
A whisper at the throne is impossible to catch from the door.
Even a shout may lose force before it is intercepted.
When Buira Makusa steps in, she politely waves off the Crescents, forcing them to stay outside.
“Bibi, what are you wearing?” Anton asks as soon as his sister closes the door. He was pacing the steps, so he sees Bibi before Calla does.
“It’s for luck.”
By Anton’s tone, Calla expected his sister to be wearing an outrageous headdress or some highly inappropriate article of clothing, but she looks exactly the same as she rounds the corner. There’s only a pendant dangling around her neck: a flat bright-blue disk.
Silently, Calla gestures for Bibi to come closer, wanting a better look at the disk, and Bibi complies.
No sigils. Only plain patterns. Calla doesn’t know what sort of rural superstition Bibi’s following, but each province comes with their own, and Laho, being in the middle of nowhere, must have many.
“Down on your luck right now?” Calla asks.
Bibi nods toward the balcony. Toward the coliseum, the open air, and the endless storm.
“The whole kingdom is down on its luck. What could this rain be except for a sign of upset from the heavens?”
Calla leans forward, her crown tipping into the light of the chandelier. Anton, visibly tensing, tries to catch his sister’s eye. Either Bibi doesn’t see him, or she opts to ignore his warning, holding Calla’s gaze.
“Careful,” Calla replies lightly. “Someone less sympathetic would take that as an insult.”
“Lucky for us you are so generous and honorable,” Bibi returns. “I spoke to Tsosia.”
Anton steps forward. “And?”
“Twenty,” Bibi says.
Calla scoffs. “At that rate, we may as well go without any.”
“How many Crescents are there in the capital?” Anton asks. “Their members must number into the thousands. And they can only spare twenty?”
“Three thousand and four hundred in San-Er,” Bibi answers. “But San-Er is hefty territory to protect. They are set up in every corner of the twin cities.”
“They could close the wall,” Anton suggests.
Bibi must be tired running after around the palace all morning. That’s the only excuse Calla can imagine when Anton’s sister suddenly drops onto the floor. She rests her bare hands behind her, palms touching the grit.
“Listen,” Bibi says, lolling her head against her shoulders.
“Tsosia can only send Crescents from her temple. This information shouldn’t go any wider beyond her jurisdiction, because the other clerics will protest and demand that every member of the Crescent Societies stay inside the wall to protect the capital.
Tsosia understands the value of snuffing out August Shenzhi. The rest will not.”
Tsosia of the Shard Temple. Calla picked up some pieces here and there while listening in on chatter during the palace cleanup.
Tsosia steered the plans to enter the Palace of Union.
Tsosia was the first to hear news of Buira Makusa seeking entrance into San-Er, and knew a rural insurgent would be worth her weight if she brought blueprints from her deceased parents as her joss money into the Crescent Societies.
“Can you stand up?” Anton whispers under his breath.
“Why?” Bibi asks. “I like to be close to the earth. It’s what the heavens want for me. And I have to do right by the heavens.”
Anton shakes his head, giving up. He drifts closer to the throne. Rather than hovering and looming, he takes a seat on the arm beside Calla, his fingers dragging through his hair. He’s nervous, even if he won’t say it.
“The boy carrying the sword out there,” Calla says suddenly, gesturing toward the door. “Levi. Is he from the Shard Temple?”
Bibi furrows her brow. Trying to recall the Crescents she walked past. “No. Your guard detail is made up of a mix between Hollow and Bone.”
Of course it’s the Hollow Temple. The Hollow Temple has always been a pain in Calla’s ass.
“Make sure he’s nowhere near us when we set out,” Calla says.
“I would have thought he deserved an invitation into the task force,” Anton remarks. “He was better than most of the other Crescents.”
“Because those were palace tactics. He’s a spy.”
Anton leaps to his feet.
“Kill him,” he says.
“No. If August loses his spy, he will know that we’re mobilizing.
” Calla keeps her voice level. “I suspect he was a palace guard put undercover with the Crescents, and a Weisanna asked him to stay put for intelligence after the coup. Just keep him away. It only takes one good attack to raze August’s camp, and then it doesn’t matter if there are spies in San-Er.
Or if the rest of the Crescents frown upon the attack. We’ll be in a good position.”
Anton quiets. The light behind his eyes changes, and Calla pretends not to notice. Bibi’s expression is unreadable, but she is touching her pendant, tracing her finger along its edge.
“I’ll report to Tsosia,” Bibi decides. “We can suggest departing at nightfall, using the westernmost exit along the wall. She will have to make an excuse that she has business with you to pull away the Crescents from Hollow and Bone.”
Calla nods. Anton is still mulling.
“One more thing.” Bibi rises to her feet, dusting off her palms. “The old gods.”
There is nothing about Bibi’s remark that should have incited panic, but Calla freezes.
It’s different from her throwaway mentions of the heavens, the sort of vague divinity that the people of the provinces believe.
It’s different from the presence of shrines and temples in San-Er, which city dwellers use for selfish vindication, pointing a finger at the will of the heavens when mortals are fallible to carnal transgressions.
“That’s what San-Er’s newscasters are calling them, so don’t look at me like that,” Bibi continues, reading the grimace that must have appeared on Anton’s face too.
“There are rural dwellers claiming they’re old gods.
They say they have been walking among mortals since the last war, but it is only now that their heavenly qi has suddenly returned. ”
Beyond the resemblance of their birth bodies—their dark eyes, dark hair, sharp angles—the most incriminating matter of resemblance between Buira and Anton Makusa is the way they talk.
It is the blemish of being raised a noble, no matter how little time either of them spent in the palace.
Bibi doesn’t look the part while she’s dressed in city leathers, but she speaks without fear of retaliation.
She speaks to reap what she wants; she speaks to cut her way forward.
Their heavenly qi has suddenly returned.
This rain, a sign of upset from the heavens.
“It’s a great time for opportunists,” Anton says.
“A great time for rural insurgents who know how to commit strange feats with their qi,” Calla corrects.
Bibi shrugs. She makes no attempt to claim innocence for the Dovetail. She must know that this is likely a scheme. “They’re in San-Er too.”
“But,” Anton says, “no one in San-Er is going to buy the return of the old gods.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Bibi replies easily. “Anyway. I thought you might want to hear the news. In case it is something to consider regarding our plan of action.”
Calla considers their immediate threats.
August’s camp, a stone’s throw outside San’s wall.
Otta Avia, lurking on his side of the line.
Otta Avia, who Calla couldn’t jump into when she tried, who shouldn’t be the source of strife in this kingdom given that she is only a factory owner’s daughter, and barely that.
“Thank you,” she says.