Chapter 54
The door to the throne room opens.
To say that August endures a great shock would be an understatement.
He freezes on the throne seat. He tracks Galipei’s approach up the steps.
Stoic, stern, unpretentious. Only Galipei’s left hand is gloved.
He is holding an object that the guards in the room give wide berth immediately.
Murmurs, echoing from the Weisannas at his side, down the steps, out onto the balcony, and beyond.
“Galipei,” August says. He finds himself struggling to form words. When Galipei stops and thrusts his arm forward, August almost doesn’t dare to look directly, in case there is some flaw with the image. The divine crown. Galipei Weisanna has the divine crown.
“Your Majesty,” Galipei says. His voice is flat.
“Clear the room,” August demands.
Marra Weisanna balks. “But—”
“Everyone except Galipei. Clear the room. Keep the palace secure.”
They cannot argue. One after the other, his guards file out through the circular entryway of the throne room, the door thudding closed and sealing them away.
August stands.
“Set the crown aside.”
Galipei does not protest the instruction. He crouches and sets it on the cold floor with a faint plink, its shimmering gold landing atop the marble tiles that three generations of kings have walked. He faces August.
He seems surprised when August puts his arms around him, pressing him close.
They have not embraced in this way since they were children.
Since August was younger and he was loose with where he flung his arms, putting them over Galipei’s shoulders to guide him when they turned a corner in the market.
That was before Galipei grew much taller.
Before August focused his every waking second on claiming the throne.
August steps back. Galipei blinks at him. He did not return the embrace.
“How… did this happen?” August asks. Just as his behavior is unusual, he also doesn’t remember the last time he phrased a question this way.
The slight pause—the vulnerability. This was not his instruction.
He did not know that the divine crown would be placed in front of him until the moment it was.
For all August knew up until ten minutes ago, he had the palace barred, waiting for the inevitable confrontation that would come when Sinoa Tuoleimi wanted a piece of the kingdom, wielding the crown in Calla’s body.
“I waited,” Galipei says quietly, “by the wall. I waited for the right time. She overpowered Sinoa Tuoleimi.”
August takes a shaky breath. He shouldn’t have underestimated Calla. To think that Actia Province would take her out would be absurd. He needs to prepare. To gather his forces and see if there is a way to—
“Calla is in the cells.”
August stops. “What?”
“Anton is dead.”
A faint ringing sounds in August’s ears then.
The words digest at odd angles. Impossible fancies and impossible thoughts, entirely out in the open.
Galipei speaks coolly, making this seem like an expected outcome of August’s war.
Anton Makusa, felled in offering. August is almost struggling to believe it, but he needs only to observe Galipei to glean the truth.
Anton’s blood is on his hands. Such an indestructible force, taking up immense space in this kingdom, this crusade—but he was no match against Galipei’s conviction.
“Anton Makusa was a threat, because he is fast to jump,” Galipei goes on.
“I needed to act during the only time I could. Calla Tuoleimi is a symbol, so she was detained and drugged instead. You will want to give her a public execution. Mark it as the end of the war, and prove what you will do to people like her.”
To the other looming threats in the kingdom, is what Galipei means.
Insurgents in the north, rebels holding their yamen and declaring themselves independent.
The pantheon across Talin, wide awake. There are many who will not want to give up the pieces of Talin they have won.
Like the god in Pashe, who August needs to contend with, sooner or later.
August’s eyes flicker down. To the crown.
“Don’t touch it until the coronation,” Galipei warns. “Or it will stick.”
“Technically,” August returns, “I was already coronated.”
“You must do it again. This is the divine crown. The true crown. It will be meaningful for the masses after the days they’ve had.”
Slowly August retrieves a glove from his pocket.
Pulls it onto his hand, then crouches beside the object.
His palm closes over one of the ridges. Its pulse thrums through muscle.
Spirits into his blood and surges around his heart.
He feels the power, even with the barrier.
Qi that calls to a rightful ruler. Qi that strikes down those who are unwilling.
The kingdom believes this, so the kingdom accepts the wearer.
For a man born neither Tuoleimi nor Shenzhi, this is how August will not be denied his rule.
August pushes hard. The ridge indents into his palm. Threatens to pierce through the fabric of his glove.
“So,” he says, his back to Galipei, “you did not defect.”
“On all counts, I did,” Galipei replies. “I acted against your orders. I fed information to the enemy.”
“I saw your cell. The blood. The sigil,” August says. He still does not turn around. “You led them on an unnecessary chase.”
Silence. Galipei, deciding what August wants to hear most. August has spent more time with Galipei than anyone in this kingdom. He knows him, can read him by the smallest twitch in his mouth. Understands what it is that he wants most, and August has spent a lifetime resisting in fear of diversion.
“I did what you wouldn’t let me do,” Galipei finally replies. “You feared for my safety. You put me inside a cradle of subservience. But I knew an opportunity would arise. I only had to play it correctly.”
August took the capital back with his numbers. But Galipei gave him his victory. Galipei went out and changed the winds of fate, drew up his own plans rather than asking permission. He acted on his own accord, as an equal would.
As a lover would.
“I see,” August says. “You did not think my instructions were wise.”
“No,” Galipei answers. “It was rather foolish to send me away.”
“You thought I was better served having you close?”
Galipei scoffs. August, picking up the crown, can imagine the manner that befalls his guard behind him. His arms crossed before his chest, his stance wide.
“I have done awful, terrible things for you, August. The only one that will have me is you. The only person I will have is you. Either accept it, or be worse off. I will not be sent away again.”
August reaches into his pocket and pulls forth his kerchief. It is still dusted with sand where he used it in Actia. He places it upon his head. Its two long ends drape over his ears, covering any skin that could be exposed.
Then, he faces Galipei and drops to his knees.
“Crown me,” August says.
Galipei’s expression offers no immediate reaction.
Only his silver eyes swivel, trying to make some sense of this image before him, of August offering this divine object to him, eliciting a theatric coronation before they welcome the kingdom as their audience.
Galipei, slowly, accepts the crown with his one gloved hand once more.
They are without witness. When he meets August’s eyes, he is seeking an answer about the ceremony he appears to be partaking in.
“Very well.”
His hand is steady. Precise. Galipei sets the crown on August’s head, the edge of his hand brushing the kerchief.
Once, a long time ago, Galipei stood over him to bleach the color out of his hair.
August remembers it. The sting as it trailed his neck.
The burn that whispered down his spine while Galipei worked.
“Long may you reign, ten thousand years,” Galipei says.
August grabs Galipei’s hand as it withdraws. The crown stays poised atop the kerchief. One layer removed from touching skin, from melding to him for the rest of his life, until he is deposed in death.
“Long may you accompany,” August returns, “as king consort.”
Galipei grows very, very still. His eyes are ablaze.
They say everything he will not. They are a cacophony while he and August—despite the proposition, despite the emptied room—do not make true contact, both their hands gloved.
Anyone else who might have known August in some capacity is dead.
They are bound together, he and Galipei.
There is no one else who is capable of treating his aspirations with a lenient touch.
No one else who is capable of matching it.
Galipei looks down.
He nods.