Chapter 25 #2
The light changes through the window, strengthening behind a thick storm cloud. A flicker of yellow, from behind Bibi’s eyes. Barely perceptible before it disappears. Calla tries to pull, and it is not the same as pulling from Anton, but it is there all the same.
“I have to go,” Calla says.
“Don’t tell Anton I just propositioned you!”
The palace is empty when Calla rushes through the north wing.
No movement overhead, no voices below her feet.
Peeling wallpaper adorned with bluebell flowers and birds with red beaks, the corners left contaminated with ash where the servants could not quite scrub it clean without taking down the wallpaper entirely.
Cornices holding up the ceiling with angry black marks across their diagonal whorls.
No matter how much Joselie mops the floorboards, the palace requires a proper renovation before it can be restored.
Calla stops in the north atrium. She tilts her head up. The mural of the pantheon has been here for as long as she can remember, since her first delegation visit to the Palace of Earth. When she needed an attendant holding her little hand to get around.
It is a beautiful mural. San-Er may have disowned its old gods, but it couldn’t yield up its treasures. Its rulers were prideful enough to unravel the Palace of Earth from the provinces and put it back together in their new epicenter.
“Calla, I was just coming to find you.”
Anton stops beside her. She pulls her gaze down from the mural. He has blood on his forehead. A rip torn through his jacket sleeve.
“The cells—”
“Wait,” Calla interrupts, grabbing his hand. “Not here.”
They’re already close to their designated quarters, and Calla guides Anton along quickly, glancing over her shoulder. She hurries them through the bedroom, shutting the door.
Anton swivels around. Heavens, his eyes.
All this talk about old gods and qi, and one of Calla’s only friends had been hiding the answers from her.
This kingdom continues to layer lies upon lies, their history rewritten again and again until the original script cannot be understood by anyone save the scribes.
Chami has the ability to grievously injure an opponent without a crown on her head.
Chami possesses power delegated far past mortals.
Has Chami always known about Calla, then?
Sensed her imposter nature emanating off her from the moment she was assigned as her attendant—
“I locked Galipei in the cells,” Anton says in a rush. “He ambushed me.”
Calla cannot rid herself of this fog clinging to her thoughts. Confusion and conviction alike. “How did he get into the palace?”
“It’s not exactly well guarded at the moment, Princess. He still has the keys to every door.”
And the mayhem at the wall. What was the point—a mere distraction? Send in a god, devastate the civilians until the Crescents are drawn away, skirt into the palace to kill Anton?
Why was Chami there?
“You’re lucky you got away,” Calla says. “Galipei isn’t forgiving in a fight.”
Anton pulls up the leg of his trousers. There’s blood smeared around his ankle, forming the shape of a handprint.
“He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was trying to get a sigil onto me.”
Calla slinks closer. She grabs Anton’s leg, and a violent shudder seizes her lungs. Inhale. Exhale. A pulse starts in her palms.
“Calla?” Anton asks.
She wants to shove her hands beneath his clothes, dig underneath his skin. Root around his chest, pry open each rib. Peer behind his eyes, slot herself inside, take him hostage until she has understood what is going on here.
Anton shifts. He’s trying to draw away, bewildered by her reaction.
“Wait,” Calla commands. Her gaze snaps up, locking with Anton’s eyes, Anton’s qi. “I need you to do something for me.”
“This is rather concerning—”
Calla rises to her full height and presses up against him. Her whole body trembles with the absorption. The tips of her fingers to the innermost creases of her organs.
“Swap with me,” she breathes. “Come inside me. Let me come inside you.”
“Calla—”
She grabs the back of his head, pulling his lips onto hers.
Unfettered qi bursts to fill the seams, as though they are the heavens and the earth, melding with perfect proximity before mortal life can breathe in between.
Anton loosens after a moment, his resistance quieting and his hands rising to thread into her hair, pulling just below the metal band of her crown.
His tongue swipes under hers: a question, an ask of entrance.
Before Anton can make the first attempt, Calla plunges in.
She doesn’t know how much of her qi changes with the crown, doesn’t perceive any flash of light through her half-lidded eyes.
For a second, she hasn’t any clue what has changed. Except:
Power. So much power lurking in her core, swimming to the surface.
Calla gasps, hurtling back. Her return to her own body is abrupt. Vigorous enough that she stumbles two steps, the underside of her knees striking the bed frame. When her vision focuses again, Anton appears equally unsettled, his hands gripping the desk behind him. His eyes have lit aflame.
“Again,” Calla gasps.
Anton marches toward her this time. His hands grasp her shoulders, and she’s fallen back, her head on the bedsheets, her head humming with the light that has entered the room.
His mouth lands on her throat; Calla shoves up.
She is Calla; she’s looking at Calla. Her fingers rip into shirt buttons, press into skin.
She moves in, she moves out, she follows whichever path of qi Anton leaves behind for her, tearing off her jacket, her trousers, consuming all that is before her, skin to skin to skin.
Her teeth bite down on his shoulder—they swap once more.
His head cranes back—no—wait. Fuck. That had been her.
She can’t keep track of who she is, where she’s taking possession.
She knows for certain she’s the one in control when Anton enters.
That the sight of her eyes widening, her lips parting in a gasp, does not match with her image of herself.
It’s not him pushing; it is her. It’s not him dropping his forehead down on her shoulder; it is her, surging with power that begs to escape.
The kingdom keeps its rules for a reason.
Though one may jump, it is only possible to invade occupants within eyesight and ten feet of distance.
Anything more requires sacrifice. Though one may jump, it is dangerous to merge qi.
Endless around and around and around causes two to forget they are not one.
Hallucinations, hearing voices, losing their minds.
That is what San-Er has always taught their children.
“Where are you?” Anton murmurs.
“Don’t resist,” Calla answers.
Light, in the room. She can’t identify where it’s coming from. Whether it is pressing up against the windows from outside, whether it is something inside scorching into visibility instead.
Anton does not resist. He must tire because it is no longer his path that she is following—Calla steers him where she wants, colliding with him when she enters.
Slower, slower he becomes each time before he loses consciousness inside her invasion.
His thoughts bleed over; his memories, his loyalty, his coveting.
The house in Kelitu, and his parents laughing.
Salt air blowing in through the window, the sun rising over the beach.
Each color at its brightest green, red, yellow, blue…
Calla slams back into herself. Her body seizes—it has reached its limit, it cannot absorb any more. The air disappears from the room. Her eyes go dark. And Anton, his hands on her hips, thrums to his peak.
The air returns. They’re gasping in their own bodies when Anton collapses, his nose at her collarbone. Calla wraps her arms around him, gaining sensation slowly, gaining her sense of space and time and reality bit by bit by bit.
Her head continues spinning. But this is what she wanted confirmed. This is what she sought. Her crown rings with a faint tinny sound.
Anton shifts, lifting onto his elbow. He opens his eyes, and Calla can’t parse any light behind them anymore because everything she sees has a faint golden sheen. Their tryst was a harvest, and her body is full.
“What… was that?” Anton manages.
Calla rises slightly too. Her hand brushes his temple, where a lock of his dark hair has fallen into his face.
“Anton,” she says. “Your father was a god.”