Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 BEFORE Power has a certain taste to it. A hot, golden tang slinking down the throat and trailing smoke in its wake, like seared meat or aged liquor. Something to settle the body, soothe the heart. It is the answer to every type of hunger, an addictive luxury that requires little else in accompaniment, some salve solely made to take up every bit of space it can find. Power also has a certain taste coming back up. And Anton Makusa can''t say he finds it very pleasant at all. He takes a shaky breath, fighting to keep his stomach under control. The guards inside the throne room peer through the gold-thread curtains, calling in concern, but Anton wipes his mouth and waves them off.
His vision flickers and doubles. His skin screams with raw misery, his qi at once too big for his body and too ill-fitting in its mold. The last minute of his existence tries to escape from understanding. He''s struggling beyond belief to hold on to consciousness, to cling to life. Memories that are both his own and not flash before his eyes. He looks at his hands, and the image lurches. He''s washing blood off. Writing with old ink.
Then, in a snap, the pain eases. Though the nausea remains, his body stands intact. His surroundings register again. One guard steps onto the balcony to ask if he would like assistance to come inside now, and Anton throws his gaze out over the ledge in disbelief. He doesn''t entirely know how he''s done it, but he has. The guard prompts him again, her eyes flickering to the sludge on the balcony floor where Anton emptied his stomach, and Anton raises a hand to stop her, barely holding down another shudder. Maybe he''s only squeamish over the gruesome image below. Princess Calla Tuoleimi--player Fifty-Seven--has just been declared the victor of the king''s annual games, having slaughtered her final opponent.
The loudspeaker continues bellowing the results: A decisive battle. the Juedou draws to a close. the final challenger is dead. and even if Anton shuts his eyes, he can''t keep the images out. His last moments in the arena are trying to coalesce with August''s most recent memories: Calla, luring him close; the council, meeting late at night in the war room; Calla, her forehead resting upon his shoulder; a dove, pressed into the wax seal of an envelope before the paper is torn open; Calla, Calla, Calla -- "I am perfectly fine," Anton says. The voice is foreign. The voice is entirely familiar. His eyes open, and the world stabilizes.
His previous body is facedown on the arena ground. Bleeding, still, even though player Eighty-Six is dead. "Pardon me. This is rather repugnant." Asking for any pardon is enough to make the guard uncomfortable, and she steps back into the throne room obediently. Anton doesn''t leave the balcony--not yet. He overlooks the arena, takes in the thousands upon thousands pressed tight against the rope barriers. When his hands curl around the railing, his knuckles are as smooth as marble, silver rings carving dents into his long fingers.
An armory shield hangs from the stone walls of the balcony. His mere conscious existence here proves that he''s succeeded in his escape, and without notice among endless witnesses. Though he knows what he has done, he''s still stupefied when he leans in, when the metal of the shield reflects back a shock of blond hair, combed and ordered under a circlet. This is August Shenzhi''s face. August Shenzhi''s body. The only difference is his black eyes, catching light with the hint of purple instead of blue. Anton''s eyes. Delirium sets in.
A bubble of laughter pushes out, and Anton hardly realizes he''s the one laughing until his reflection moves too-- it''s you making that sound. No one else stands on the throne room balcony. It''s you wearing these silk clothes, wearing the prince himself. There''s an incredible distance between where he stood in the arena and where August was watching. Yet he jumped, without having August in his sights first, without giving off that obvious flare of light. No evidence remains to show what he has done except for the pool of blood in the middle of the arena, noxious with the qi he drew from his previous body to fuel his move as he was dying. Amateur experimentation. Anton clutches his hands behind his back.
August''s sleeves whisper with the movement, the light blue unstained and perfectly unmarred. No one below cares to watch him too closely in this moment, especially not while Calla is being led out by the guards, directed forward into the Palace of Union. He eyes her coldly, waits for a show of regret or some sign that killing him has affected her, but she disappears from view without looking back, her gait steady. He dared to believe this would have ended differently, but that was his mistake. He may get caught in the next few minutes; he may get away with this forever. Neither one is more likely than the other when such an invasive phenomenon has been performed before, and as soon as Calla strikes, that throne will be his. This should have been impossible. And yet.
And yet. "You''re weak," Anton says out loud. He lifts his arm, waving goodbye to the arena audience, and half of them wave back instantly, summoned to attention by the gesture. He hadn''t thought anyone would notice, but of course they do. A jolt runs down his spine, so strong that he has half a mind to check for a wound. He''s comprehending, slowly, the full implication of what he''s achieved. Royal and noble bloodlines have been preserved over the centuries with the belief that their lineage holds favor with the old gods. August Shenzhi was born August Avia.
As much as he''s tried to escape it, he can''t change that. "Please, please, hold your applause," Anton whispers under his breath, turning on his heel. The words are reminiscent of a different life he lived long ago. This time around, there really is applause to accompany his exit: innumerable eyes upon his gestures and the knowledge that anything he proclaims upon the balcony will be heralded as law. He straightens his shoulders, smooths down his robes. The guards startle when he pushes back into the throne room, the curtains billowing to either side of the door. Though they hasten forward, Anton says nothing--not yet. He had little reason to enter the throne room back when this was the Palace of Earth and he resided in the other wing.
The walls shimmer velvet red. Gold pillars prop up the high ceiling, their details carved with renderings of Talin''s old gods. While he walks, slowly taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, his shoes sink into the deep green carpet threads, plush and soft. A smarter man would ask for the vault to be opened, gather whatever he can, and run before the opportunity slips by. "The war room," he declares instead. "Let''s go." The royal guards must find the request strange. One steps forward--orange eyes, not a Weisanna--and says, "Highness, you''re expected at the banquet.
It will begin soon." "I know." Something smells different about the palace, he decides. It''s been years since he was last inside, but his memory of the rest of its layout hasn''t faltered. Exile is lonely. Unforgiving. There was little to do during his quieter nights, and he turned to imagining these rooms in his mind, pretending he had clusters of priceless objects at his disposal rather than another sparse meal of a single fried egg when he woke in the morning. "Your Highness?" Anton is already on the move despite the guard, hurrying the few steps down and taking care not to trip when the flooring turns uneven.
He passes the nobles at the door and pushes through the flurry of activity, paying no heed to the surprised greetings, the double takes. It''s late. There must have been lurkers waiting to walk with him to the banquet, wishing to gain favor. Now they blink after him striding in the opposite direction, and the royal guards are quick to scatter the waiting palace nobles promising, His Highness will be with you shortly if you could please make your way. Anton doesn''t stop. Outside the entrance to the war room, two guards step aside quickly upon sighting him. He asks them to stay there, alongside the royal guards who have followed him from the throne room, and he closes the door after himself before any of them can respond. There''s cheering, somewhere in the distance.
The crowds will be dispersing after the arena battle, drifting closer to the palace, hoping to catch sight of the banquet or receive scraps afterward. Anton bites down hard on his teeth, marching straight for the filing cabinets pressed to the far wall. Talin''s borders have been at peace for the past century, protecting the kingdom within from conflict, but the war room is well used, treated as the center of palace affairs. His fingers skate along the ornate table to the left, brushing across the rough surface and jostling the teacups that haven''t yet been cleared. He opens the first filing drawer he sees, yanking all the way until its latch makes a metallic clang to signal it cannot be pulled any farther. A flurry of dust bursts upward when he fingers through the tabs, reading each one quickly. Theft, Assault, Property Violation, Weapons Use, Protective Orders. He slams the first drawer closed.
Only petty charges within San-Er. Not what he''s looking for. He makes a wider glance around the room, considering where the information he needs would be stored. Instead of screens and machines, the war room is populated with shelves of thick books. The walls are covered in maps with curling edges, browning from age. Someone has drawn the window''s heavy cu.