Chapter Thirteen #3
“Maia, you can’t be serious,” Dahlia says. “You know the discord it would cause. If everyone remembered their past lives and sought to overturn the echelons to be with former family…”
“Others would seek vengeance,” says Sorrell. “Past grudges, and all.”
“I thought the emotional attachment fades. If so, would reading one’s own codex make a difference?” I ask.
A beat of silence.
Then it’s Dahlia who says, “Of course it would. To read your own codex is to reestablish the connection with your former life. Imagine the chaos.”
Reestablish the connection? “What exactly does that mean?”
“No one really knows. It’s just what we’ve been told.”
I had been right to search the Abyssal, but not just for any book. If I could find Anton’s…
“She has taken choice out of the equation,” Maia is saying. “Not everyone would choose to remember. Perhaps it could be a ruling, only those with permission…”
An argument swiftly breaks out. It’s the point of the game, I realize. I wonder if they’ve little better to do with their time, if a debate makes them feel a part of something. Maia no longer attempts to justify her stance.
They’ve yet to realize I never cast a stone.
Sorrell and Rasmus are butting heads now, debating the merits of each echelon, the difference between the Exalted and the Dignified.
Now that I initiated such a discussion, the topic shifts to debating whether the Shadows should be allowed to earn the next echelon up—the Sustained—after a century of servitude, and so on. Unanimously, they decide against it.
I recall, then, that there was a Court of the Exalted before Anton, and I wonder if they are upset about the loss of it.
Already I’ve noticed how many opposed the very notion of the appeals.
Yet many seem to accept his presence here, or respect it at the very least. So many hang all over him, and I wonder if that’s why: an attempt at securing power.
I try not to look for him, yet I find my eyes pulled to his every so often without my permission. Like now, I see him pace to the balcony that faces the waterfall, clap another soul on his shoulder, and greet a girl in a silky, slinky stretch of yellow that reveals her every curve.
He laughs, and so does she.
His hand comes around her waist.
I suddenly can’t breathe.
Then my eyes track a dark silhouette at his shoulder, his rag uniform so at odds with the silk and glamour of this place.
Illian skirts the room, mostly in shadow. In his hand is a broom, and he stops before a bar where someone had dropped a tray of glasses. One by one, he picks up each shard, then sweeps up the remaining dust.
I wait for Anton to notice, wondering if he’s the reason Illian is here. Did he summon his brother, wishing to see him debased? He might not recall all that Illian did during the Gathering, but he would remember that Illian made multiple attempts on his life in his youth.
When Illian attempts to take his leave, Anton calls out, “You missed a piece.”
Illian’s expression is blank, wiped clean, as he turns back around. Anton leans a hip against the nearby bar, jerking his chin toward the floor, where Illian kneels once more to survey the area he just cleaned.
“There is not a single shard left,” Illian says, his head still bowed.
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to keep looking,” Anton replies. “Crawling, I imagine, would give you a better vantage.”
Then he turns away, back toward a small congregation of souls.
I can’t deny how it feels to watch, and yet it’s not as satisfying as I’d imagined. While deserved, this sort of revenge is petty and small and not like the Anton I remember. I long more for justice—a punishment more fitting to Illian’s crimes.
Rising from the table a few minutes later, I finally excuse myself and offer a farewell, which they blessedly do not notice, and shuffle toward the door.
Once more, my eyes walk a traitorous path toward Anton. He’s shoving playfully at another soul—a different one now. She nudges him back, shoving a slice of fruit between his teeth, the slender sleeve of her coral gown falling to bare her dark umber shoulder.
Nausea climbs its way through my ribs.
“Not so interested in you now, is he?” comes a voice. I turn to find Illian behind me, making his way from the room, broom and dustpan in hand.
“He seems interested in you, though,” I return. “How it must pain you to kneel before him in this life, too.”
“Did you hope,” he says with a hint of a smirk, “that your dancing might bring him back to you? What a pity it was to witness such a valiant attempt, only for him to barely notice.”
I don’t bother with a response, attempting to nudge my way past him and into the hall.
But his low tenor halts me once more. “You know, I tried to warn you—for years. I would have warned you at the Gathering, too, had I known your involvement with him. His fascinations have, and will always be, temporary. The same cannot be said for me. Say what you will, Vasalie, but it was only ever you.”
“And what a poisonous thing obsession is,” I hiss, then continue on my way, pretending with all my strength that Illian’s words aren’t sinking in.