Chapter 15
If August counts back the years, chances are high that he and Anton were friends longer than they were adversaries.
Some parts along the timeline are unclear. Some incidents hover strangely between friendly fire and outright hostility. It all gets blurry at a certain point—that’s what it means to have an equal in anything, isn’t it?
It’s their schoolyard days that come to him most vividly.
Back then, he and Anton were only responsible for what they studied, how they behaved themselves.
Anton Makusa was older than him, but it was a small school, and the years between them didn’t matter as much as their quick friendship.
The nobles all sent their children to an academy two streets away from the palace, which meant it was only another extension of the palace’s private tutors and etiquette lessons.
In attendance with August and Anton were children of councilmembers and silver-eyed Weisannas-in-training.
A few of the more ambitious commoners put their kids at this school, too, if they wanted them rubbing shoulders with nobles, but proximity provided little use in San-Er.
One either had control over the matters moving in and out of its wall or didn’t.
August was always more focused on which adults he could befriend rather than fellow students.
The grappling among adolescents served no purpose to him, so he never made an effort proving his worth to his classmates.
Anton was the same. Anton let people come to him.
Many were intrigued by the sole living Makusa, the one who’d survived a massacre…
but rarely did acolytes stick around. There was a recklessness to Anton’s manner that he exhibited on purpose.
Well-behaved in the classroom and prone to throwing fits after hours if he wasn’t getting his way.
It made him volatile, and their peers didn’t like that.
August didn’t mind, though.
He and Anton often stayed behind when class ended.
Their academy was a four-story brick-and-metal building, evacuation stairs running down one side and a garden on the rooftop to take lunch.
Sometimes the sun would emerge from the clouds, and they got a taste of natural light that San’s alleys absorbed before it hit the ground.
Sometimes they’d sit there in each other’s company, nothing particular to talk about, nothing to work on.
During those early academy days, both of August’s parents were still alive.
He only needed to get back to the palace before dinner so his mother wasn’t searching for him.
Meanwhile, Anton Makusa had no one checking on him.
He was allowed a room and a seat at a dining table, because his father had been important.
If Anton asked King Kasa for a favor, noble propriety said that King Kasa needed to try.
Having Anton as a friend was the last time August beheld an equal in some manner.
Leida came later. Leida existed in August’s periphery until he was nearing his confirmation as Kasa’s heir, and then she decided she quite liked August. That has always rubbed him the wrong way, even before the blood she spilled in his capital.
Nothing was the same after August was adopted by King Kasa.
After Anton was exiled. After August was gifted Galipei as his most loyal bodyguard.
August reached a point where he understood he could have anything so long as he wanted it enough.
The kingdom. The throne. They were all plans to draw, game pieces to move. They were all within reach.
Anton wasn’t.
An equal. A friend.
“August. I know you can hear me.”
They’re packing up the camp. While they occupied this temporary base in Eigi, they have collected an amalgamation of volunteer soldiers and nobles who fled looking for safety.
Now they must diverge: one camp who is continuing the fight with August and another to be stored elsewhere, simply to not bother August.
“August,” the voice comes again.
He tips his head back, pressing into the hard edge of his plastic chair. Resists the urge to groan, because this is one piece he has never fully accounted for.
“Enter,” he relents.
Galipei shoves the door aside. He looms at the threshold, dressed in borrowed cottons, a plain blue color outfitted around his shoulders, matched to gray slacks.
Through all the years August has known Galipei Weisanna, he’s worn training gear.
Palace-approved uniform in its varying states, as black as the crown prince’s gaze.
“I’m glad to see you embracing your entrance into civilian life,” August remarks, tapping his fingers on his makeshift desk.
Galipei frowns. He sniffs once at the remark, and a second time when he turns to inspect the door latch, still swinging from the disturbance of his entrance.
His brow furrows, as though it is an offense that August dared keep the door closed to him.
What a peculiar concept it is—August Shenzhi stationed amid the mess in the war room, but his closest guard left outside.
“They burned my clothes,” Galipei says dully.
“Most of it was singed already,” August returns.
Galipei steps into the room properly, sliding the door closed after himself.
He takes inventory of the war room. The maps pinned to the board, the papers stacked in the corner, barely keeping track of which nobles pledged which assets.
This is a far cry from August’s office in the turret.
Beyond the light raindrops splattering on the window, the only view is the sloping plains of Eigi, and the busy guards outside.
“Can I offer a word?” Galipei asks. “Or are you going to threaten my job again?”
August stops tapping his fingers. A nerve twitches in the center of his palm.
“I thought,” he says softly, “I was very clear yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, August.” Galipei props his hands on the other side of the desk. He nudges it forward a small fraction. The room shrinks. “But your ask was nonsensical.”
“My ask is not voluntary.”
“Neither is my devotion. I swore into this job. You can’t release me from it with the snap of a finger.”
August doesn’t quite understand this resistance.
Or—he does. He wishes not to. His palm twitches again, and he has half a mind to lance a dagger through his hand, kill the muscle and eliminate whichever signal has gone awry in his body.
He can’t help but wonder if this is some byproduct of being invaded, as though Anton Makusa left behind a pathogen festering in August’s bloodstream.
He imagines silent buboes opening in his chest, threatening to burst, and what develops in their wake is beyond illness.
It’s Anton’s wildness. Anton’s obsessions.
“I can,” August says. “I am your king, am I not?”
“If you’re asking San-Er and Talin at large,” Galipei sneers, pressing harder on the desk, “they may answer you are not.”
This menacing act does not suit him. Neither does civilian gear, so at least Galipei is departing from convention across the board.
“Decry me, then.” August does not let his tone change. “You are allowed.”
Galipei’s jaw tightens. “You will not win your war like this.”
“I didn’t ask for your take.”
“What has Otta been suggesting, then?” Galipei demands. “Bide your time? Await the capital?”
The rest of their camp do not know who Otta Avia is, but they suspect there is something amiss.
They see the sigils she’s drawing over herself.
August senses their judgment, then their irritation after Otta issues instructions.
Who is she to tell us what to do? She will not disclose her identity because that will press into August’s authority, and she is still trying to play nice.
This, he knows. August is familiar with what it looks like when his sister has decided she won’t play nice anymore.
“Those suggestions are from me, actually,” August says.
Galipei drops his head, letting it hang past the line of his wide shoulders.
This conversation tires him, but he will not show it.
Just as he has never shown August any bruise or ache, feigning flawless condition until he can manage it no longer.
He would incinerate himself while insisting August needed to stay warm.
“I heard what Naov was saying when he took the telephone,” Galipei says. “If the councilmember of Pashe is stumbling over his own words, I suspect you have very little support behind you.”
“It doesn’t matter whether my councilmembers support me or not,” August returns. “They fled to my camp. They listen.”
When Galipei looks up, his silver eyes lift behind August. He’s glaring at someone who is not there, invisible and intangible.
“Does she have something on you?” he whispers.
“No.”
“Then I cannot understand what this is. August, you do not have the provinces right now. You cannot take this waffling tactic circling San-Er until something changes. The other guards are talking about old gods emerging.”
“I have heard about these alleged gods,” August says. “Powerful individuals in the provinces are not my concern. They are still individuals.”
“The provinces are on the brink of revolt,” Galipei snaps. “The rural dwellers will rush to follow the gods popping up left and right. Your soldiers will be flattened in seconds if Calla waves an arm.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
Galipei’s jaw slackens. “Did you see what Calla could do?”
“I saw the battle that unfolded on this base,” August says. “Why do you think you were allowed to continue resting undisturbed? We did not so much as attempt evacuation.”
“You did not spend extended time with your adversaries,” Galipei says. “I did. I have seen them operate firsthand.”
August sets his hands in his lap. Lest he slash his palm along the sharpest edge of his desk, quench this itch by running his blood into the open. “Yes, you know them well.”
“Stop it.” Galipei’s voice is rising. “It’s unfair to be bitter at me for not seeing through their ploy—if anything, it only further supports my point.
August, you will lose. You cannot meet them out in the provinces.
Make a brute force attack now and get San-Er back from the Crescent Societies. Kill Anton. Condemn Calla.”
August has tired of this. “Galipei, enough.”
“I know you—”
“I don’t need you,” August interrupts. “I have advisors. Ten of them, in fact, ready on call.”
Galipei takes a breath. It quavers upon entry. He whispers, “What is wrong with you?”
“I asked you to step back, and I meant it,” August answers. The itch in his palm is spreading. It slithers up his arm, then pervades his chest. “Is that all?”
“Do you think I don’t know you well enough after all these years?” Galipei returns. “Yell at me if you have to. If you are angry that it took me too long to see through Makusa’s charade, then say so. Say something beyond these false pleasantries that I can see through a mile away.”
“I am not angry,” August intones. “Aren’t I speaking outright? I have a war effort that has been thoroughly planned at every juncture. You must join the nobles once we move on from Eigi. You’re injured.”
Galipei’s jaw clenches. “I am your personal guard.”
“You are not up to performance.”
“Then I am your friend.”
August knows what he wants the end of this war to look like. Total control. Peace from one end of the kingdom to the other, a hold secured without any room for argument. Being king is not enough. He must become a god too, because that is how he builds a legacy.
“Don’t be sentimental,” August says. “I suppose you’ll tell me you love me next.”
Galipei is unreadable in that moment. The light is too dim; the morning is too dull.
“And would that be so terrible?” Galipei asks.
August has planned his climb to the top for years. When he imagines the end, he sees himself alone.
“I am not a man, Galipei. I am your king. Kings cannot be loved as men can.”
For a moment, Galipei only stares at him. His features are stone. At last, he does not argue back. He pushes off the desk and turns to go.
“The first cohort of nobles are being transferred to Gaiyu for safeguarding,” August calls as Galipei reaches the door. “Join them. It’s for your own good.”
This is all he advises. He has nothing further to add.
Galipei pauses at the threshold. His hand lingers at the entryway, one finger balancing where the latch protrudes. His head turns imperceptibly. Most of his face remains shielded.
“Fuck you, August.”
Galipei slams the door after himself.
The silence is all-consuming in his wake. August tilts back into the chair. Exhales. He feels nothing. He will feel nothing.
He will win the war, and then he will have everything.