Chapter 11 #2
I pace, then pause at the mirror, realizing I don’t look anything like myself. My hair is shortened, loose and unkempt, barely hanging over my shoulders. There are red scabs at the corners of my lips. It’s been an entire day without my chain, and I feel naked. I want it back. I need it back.
There is a knock at the door.
“Yes?” I say, opening it.
Standing there is a woman with a thin face, high cheekbones, and a prominent chin.
Her hands are folded at the waist of her uniform—a rigidly tailored skirt in Skyborn purple.
Her corset is structured like steel armor, stitched tight and high.
Tiny crystal hearts are embroidered into her collar, catching the light like tears, frozen midfall.
More drip from her ears, her wrists, her throat.
They’re small, unnecessary, cruel things.
“Contestant Fifty-Four?”
I blink.
“Axira Merreri?”
“Yes?”
“You’re very clean for a Saltblood.” She smiles tightly. “I’m Syra. Your assigned maid until your elimination—or your unlikely victory. Either way, I suggest you take this seriously. The Skyborn do not reward sentiment. We reward discipline with the gift of sentiment.”
I swallow. “I didn’t ask for—”
“I’m here to help you find your way at the Citadel. If you make it through the tournament, I’ll serve you as a citizen.”
“That’s really not necessary.” I wave a hand.
“It’s not a choice, Contestant Fifty-Four.
” She steps inside and paces around me. “Hands at your sides when addressed. You are not in the gutter now.” She tugs on her corset, smoothing it.
“You need help, whether you realize it or not. Love is a hunger the lowborn never learn to curb. That’s why you riot. ”
I’ve never rioted a day in my life. And I have endless reasons to.
“That’s why your ancestors rutted like animals.”
I don’t even know what that means.
“That’s why you steal and lie. And sometimes”—she whispers—“grow foolish enough to challenge our great laws. That’s why you suffer.”
I flinch. Is she trying to convince me or herself?
“Emotion is not proof of sincerity,” she continues. “It’s proof of weakness. Control yourself. Or you have no hope in surviving this tournament when the gloves are off.”
I don’t move. She watches me as if she’s cataloging my flaws. My hesitation. The worn, ragged threads of my sentencing robes. It’s like she’s checking off the list of expectations she had about me before coming here.
“A fast learner. Perhaps you will prove to be the exception. Do you have any questions?”
So many, but the one that comes out is, “Do you always dress like that?”
Her chin lifts slightly. “Adornment reflects discipline. Beauty without sentiment is the mark of a civilized people. That’s what separates us from…
” She trails off, but I hear the word anyway.
You. She lets the silence hang. I refuse to fill it.
Finally, she flicks an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve.
“Feelings make the lowborn reckless. The tournament isn’t just about love, it’s about being brave and loyal, like—”
“A patriot,” I interject.
“Precisely.”
“Because the heart’s just a liability, right?”
“For you lowborn, yes.”
“At least on some things we agree,” I mutter.
Her smile is almost sympathetic. Almost. “But that’s why I’m here. To prepare you.” She hands me a package wrapped in paper. “A gift from the Benevolent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m going to make it to the end of this tournament,” I say. I’m going to have my ship.
She pauses in the doorway, not looking back at me. Then, she leaves.
I exhale. If I never see her again, I wouldn’t complain.
I feel the shape of the package before tentatively peeling open the brown wrapping.
Inside is a framed certificate of death for Geof Merreri—my father.
Cause of death: identified rebel. Guilty on all accounts.
On a small card with the frame it says, Sleep well. It’s signed by the Benevolent.
The frame slips from my hands and shatters on the floor.
My father, a rebel?
It’s absurd. They think they can slap that label onto anyone as an excuse to get rid of them.
My father might have pushed a rule or two in private, but he performed his courier duties like a model Saltblood.
He never had trouble with Mercyenforcers.
He watched the rebellion peak and die in his lifetime.
After he died, everyone who knew him would tell me how he was a good fisherman.
He spent his time outside of courier hours fishing and giving all he caught to orphanages and mothers’ tenements in the district.
When he married my mother, he made sure she was well taken care of in her tenement, giving her his rations if she left work too late or was too tired to get hers.
There wasn’t a day I did not see my father.
He was always showing up to walk me to school or take me to fish. I saw him more than I saw my mother.
Most of the kids in my tenement rarely saw their fathers, and the mothers were so overworked we spent most of the day before and after lessons without anyone, closed in our rooms, so we couldn’t wander off and drown in the ocean.
The youngest ones all stayed together in one room.
I recall how you could always tell when a new baby joined the tenement because there was crying all day and all night for someone to come get them.
Then, eventually it went quiet. The babies stopped crying. Because no one ever came.
I kick aside the glass, stepping away from it. The Citadel will dispose of anyone who steps out of line.
How do I sleep here, around all this, when Fina and the others have nothing back home? I put the silky sleeping clothes in the waste bin as well. I don’t want any of his gifts.
I’m here for Fina and the others. If I can get through this tournament, things will be better for all of us.
I glare at the soft, oversized bed before climbing into it and lying on top of the covers.
But even that is so soft. I hate the way every muscle in my body relaxes when I sink into it.
I lie down, my head throbbing harder, sleep tugging at me.
Tomorrow, it begins.
I will find someone to betray. Whatever it takes. I try to replay my conversation with Caelus, recalling all he told me about the tournament, but the Heartfiller is too strong. I close my eyes and let the sedative take me. It feels like defeat.