Chapter 42
Anton waits five minutes.
He doesn’t know what he expects, that Calla might be in and out of Rincun so quickly as to suddenly stir.
He adjusts when his legs start to cramp at the edge of the marsh, ducking behind the cattails and sitting beside Calla’s empty vessel.
Her crown gleams. The metal vibrates in the dark, signaling its use somewhere across the kingdom.
Anton shouldn’t. But she’s lying—he knows it. Whatever he could recall in her body, she must have the memory too. She won’t tell him… Why? What is she avoiding? Anton leans toward her. He puts one hand on Calla’s unmoving shoulder, and he breathes in, in, in. His throat seizes. His teeth chatter.
Then he has jumped, and he’s wearing Calla again.
The pass stretches long ahead of them. On either side, the green mountains rise into the storm clouds, their top halves obscured. The trees are dense, sprouting from the rock face in clusters. It keeps out the wind when they push their horses to a gallop.
The godling of greed should not be present at this battle.
Their king would advise that there is a limit to the extent in which they meddle with mortal affairs.
Prayers gauged against the amount in which a mortal sacrifices.
Each request measured up to the benefit that an immortal reaps when the mortal believes—believes in their domain with every thud of their fast-moving life-span.
She casts a glance to her side. Sinoa Tuoleimi rides at the helm, readying to clash with the enemy line.
Sinoa’s brothers, meanwhile, did not ride out with their army.
They are not fighters. They sit behind marble tables and carry decorative swords.
They will send men out to die for them, nary a reason behind it, praying not to the godling of lust or to the god of war.
There is a deep emptiness inside Akilas and Potau Tuoleimi.
They rename themselves into a family called Shenzhi, son of gods, simply because they feel they deserve to.
Without any prayer toward the correct domains.
The godling of greed takes one hand off the reins, throwing her power out. Sinoa Tuoleimi clashes with the enemy bearing the strength of ten soldiers, her sword cutting through armor and steel. The godling steers her armored horse straight into enemy ranks, breathing in. Greed, greed—it emanates.
A hard blink. Anton isn’t really present. It is easy to forget.
Another battle. The same war, but a much later time.
Sinoa Tuoleimi wears the divine crown while she disappears into the carnage.
There’s a flare of light. There’s a piercing scream, cut short by an explosion, and then gunfire.
The godling of greed has lost control. This isn’t how it was supposed to play out.
Other members of the pantheon have stepped in. Why would they step in? She stretches her will across the valley. Feels who is present: god of the short blade, godling of an elder’s vanity. They answered the calls of the mortal kings in the capital. Why?
Heavenly qi flashes through her fingertips.
She is bogged down by this mortal form, but it is the only way she is allowed to fight here.
She uses it as a physical force, keeping down the opposing soldiers while her side moves.
As she inches toward another line of soldiers, her power halts, meeting a counterforce.
A sickly-sweet smell travels through the battlefield.
As though a canvas of rot waits beneath their feet—apples or peaches, already blackened and curling in on themselves.
The godling of greed absorbs the attack when a thunder roll of qi strikes her.
An involuntary shudder spasms through her chest. She tastes the same rot on her tongue.
“No, no,” Anton whispers under his breath. “Enough of this.”
“Sinoa,” the godling of greed bellows. “Enough.”
A lacquer-red temple. This time, she holds no mortal form. She is silent. She is invisible.
“You can’t abandon me here!” Sinoa screams. “I prayed to you! Push me through! We can get Yi back. I know we can.”
But the godling of greed says nothing. Her work is not relevant anymore. The front line will fall. The war is as good as over, and there is a stark difference between greed and delusion. Only one more weapon waits with Sinoa Tuoleimi, and the godling doesn’t know if she will actually use it.
“Fine,” Sinoa says below. “Fine!”
“Fine, fine!” Otta yells.
No—wait, go back. The palaces have changed.
He recognizes this one. This is not the Palace of Earth that used to stand in the provinces; this is the one Anton grew up in.
This is San-Er; this is their time, and this is Otta Avia, throwing a tantrum in a sitting room because they ran out of the tea she likes.
It is embarrassing. Calla does not much care for her parents, but she enjoys that moment of shared disdain when she glances back to the king and queen of Er.
They are pleased that Calla is well-behaved.
She has been raised to know better in the Palace of Heavens, where she will rule one day.
She excels in her swordsmanship studies already. At such a young age.
When the attendant comes with a new teacup, Otta knocks it over.
Calla wishes August were in the room, because he is a calming force.
Calla wishes August were here so they could talk maturely about what books they have been reading and what murals in the palace have caught their interest, but instead it is only Otta, who acts five years old instead of fifteen.
With a sigh, Calla goes to help. The attendants rush to tell Her Highness to please, leave it to them, and Calla waves them off. She finishes collecting the pieces. She meets Otta’s black gaze.
“You will answer for what you have done,” Calla says.