Chapter LII
LII.
Torren
It is one in the morning, and Kerasea is in my bedchamber. She is not, however, in my arms. No, she’s kept her distance, pacing in front of me for the last five minutes as I sit on the edge of my bed.
It is an understatement to say that something is off about her. One of her priestesses just died—by her own hand or, more likely, by a murderer—but somehow that doesn’t feel like the issue. What more could there be? A feeling of wrongness sinks its claws into me, tearing me apart.
“Kerasea, what do you want to tell me?” I ask.
She stops, her eyes wide, as if she forgot I was present.
Then she runs her hands down her long hair.
When she shifts her arm, there’s a bandage visible on her left wrist. It’s bloody, and it wasn’t there before.
She must’ve cut herself while taking out Mirial’s liver, but the fact that it’s her wrist is odd. It’s almost as if it was on purpose—
“I need to say something.” She sighs.
Nothing else comes out.
“Just say it, then.” I speak in a gentle tone as I wonder what could be rending her speechless.
She shakes her head and presses her lips together. Then she slaps her hands down at her sides. “I can’t.”
Yet she’s here. If she truly didn’t want me to know, she would’ve stayed in her bedchamber.
I thought perhaps this was about us, a speech about how our kiss was a mistake, but that’s not it, either.
She wants me to know a fact, but she doesn’t want to be the one to tell me.
Truth is fighting with self-preservation.
“You found something.” It’s a guess, but an educated one.
She stops pacing and drops her head into a nod.
“You want to be truthful, but you can’t tell me because…you’re afraid of the consequences?”
Another guess, but it makes her pause, so there is some validity to it. Still, other than confessing to murder, the High Priestess wouldn’t face consequences for nearly anything. So what has her so wound up?
“The issue is that I can’t reveal how I know, and you’ll ask,” Kerasea says. “You’ll ask because you’re a good investigator.”
She stares at me, her green eyes earnest. The strangeness of this makes the hair on my arms stand. I shake off the chill.
“All right,” I say. “In that case, I won’t ask. You have my word.”
She blinks, but the tension eases in her shoulders.
“Senator Medea murdered Mirial.”
I stare, and by the time I blink, my eyes feel dry. “Shock” isn’t the right word for what I feel. “Sucker punched” is more accurate. I allow myself a moment before I speak. Whatever I’d thought she might say, it was not an accusation of murder against Senator Medea.
Medea was one of the killers who formed the republic.
Many suspect that she poisoned her patron brother long ago, leaving her in sole power of a storied family.
She is as clever as she is ruthless and no doubt capable of pushing a priestess off a balcony, so it makes logical sense, though I’ll have to think on what motive she’d have. Would war be enough?
The wrongness, of course, is why can’t Kerasea reveal her source? It feels like I walked into a trap by promising not to ask. She didn’t have to tell me anything, so what does she stand to gain from this?
Nothing. Medea isn’t her enemy. In fact, she is friendly to Kerasea. So if there’s nothing to gain from the lie, it is likely the truth.
“All right,” I say. “But you know I cannot investigate a senator without the Council lifting un exorum. And the Senate will demand some manner of proof if you accuse Medea.”
Kerasea nods. “I know. Proof is the heart of the issue.” She begins pacing again. “Mirial was murdered, and that much I can swear to. If I say I witnessed it, that would be enough, but…”
“I would know you are lying.” The words fly out of me before I even think them through.
She stops, spreads her hands apart, and exhales.
That is the real issue and why she’s here.
She is willing to swear falsely that she witnessed Medea push Mirial off her balcony.
The Senate would accept that as a credible accusation.
I would be able to search for evidence and, if I find anything, use pressure on Medea—that is, unless I admit that the High Priestess could not have seen the murder because I was with her at the time.
The wind is knocked from my chest as I realize the choice she’s put in front of me. I can pretend I don’t know she is lying in order to catch a murderer. Or I can refuse false evidence and potentially allow a killer to walk free. Which is better? Which is more just?
Without Kerasea swearing falsely, Medea will not face any consequences—that much is undeniable. And she could very well be behind the senate murders as well. Something sticks about the idea, some glances and smiles. Nothing more than a gut instinct, but that shouldn’t be ignored.
Only, how does Kerasea know? She doesn’t suspect that Medea killed Mirial.
This isn’t someone spewing random accusations.
She is as certain as I’ve ever seen an accuser.
The High Priestess would hold up swearing before her god.
She has nothing to fear, as she is nearly untouchable.
Then again, other people around her are not.
It could have been Zel.
Kerasea spoke to her servant when she was bringing her back to the tower.
If Zel witnessed the murder, Kerasea would believe her, but a servant child would not be viewed as credible by the Senate.
By saying that she saw the murder herself, Kerasea would not only get justice for her priestess, but she could protect the girl, and I’ve seen how far she is willing to go to do that.
“Sleep on it, please,” Kerasea says. “At dawn, tell me your response. I’ll understand either way.”
I glance at the night clock. That’s around six hours from now.
She gives me a lingering look and then turns to leave.
“Kerasea,” I say, standing. She pauses and meets my eye.
There are so many secrets, so many lies, so many things unsaid between us. I want her. I want her away from me. I want to protect her. I want to hurt her.
“I swear on the gods, if I find you out of your chambers again tonight, I will kill you myself,” I murmur.
It wasn’t what I was going to say.
She shrugs. “I accept your terms, Praetorian.”
I walk her out, and we silently pad to her room. She unlocks the door and swings it open, then lights the nearest lamp. When I look inside, no one is in there. She is safe.
I move to close her door, and she glances at me again over her shoulder. For just a second, there is an expression of vulnerability, of a need for help, and then it vanishes and she starts to move her bureau.
At least she is finally following directions.
I return to my room, sit on my bed, and run a hand down my face. What do I do now?
My armor shines in the corner as if it is winking at me.
And perhaps it is mocking me. I became Praetorian half to avenge my family, to clear my name.
And the other half was to have the power to administer justice, the way Hadrian did to that sentry.
I never anticipated these types of moral dilemmas, and that was incredibly naive, as my position is rife with them.
Instead of the black and white I expected, veritas is all shades of gray.
I know what my father would have done. He was a firmly moral man—his honor is ultimately what got him killed. He would have refused false testimony. He would have stuck to the truth even if it meant that Medea walked free.
But I am very much not my father.
I believe in the republic, in the rule of law, and in protecting the Senate—I am just more flexible in my means.
But what is Kerasea actually asking me to do?
Nothing. She wants me to say nothing. Is staying silent in the face of a lie wrong if it aids me in my goals?
If it catches someone so powerful that they are above the law?
Is there even such a concept as the “right thing to do” in Pryor?
No matter how I debate this in my mind, in my heart, I already have an answer.
I snuff my candle and lie back on the bed.
Sometimes I wonder if my father would be proud or ashamed of who I’ve become, but that’s a hypothetical.
He’s dead—a victim of the corrupt Verity Guild, all of whom met their untimely demise.
And I cannot live for ghosts and memories. All I can do is be what I am.
A monster who got away with multiple murders.
So, I suppose the better question is, who do I want to be?