Empress of a Thousand Skies(30)
“The Outer Belt is home to many things that science says should not exist,” he whispered. “Strange creatures. Magic creatures. They shouldn’t be alive and yet they are, they stay alive, simply because their will to live is so strong. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Princess?”
She did. His hand in hers, the pain, the clouds of color. It all made sense, it all resolved into a single message she knew by heart: She would find Seotra and make him pay.
She tried to focus on her revenge, on how it would feel to sink the knife into him. But instead, she called up not her deep hatred but the moment with Julian in the dojo when they’d been inches apart—the feelings she didn’t know how to define, and the almost kiss they’d shared.
Starbursts continued behind her eyes. Pain sang through her veins. She should not have survived. Twice, she should not have survived. But she had.
? ? ?
Rhee wrapped her robes around her tightly as they walked toward the Crystal Monument, where the mourning ceremony would take place. She could see the vapor of her breath. The icy air on Tinoppa exhilarated her; on Nau Fruma Rhee had only ever felt the sun burn her skin or watched as the heat made things in the distance appear blurry and strange. But there was something certain about the crisp weather here, like time had been frozen and she, only she, would be responsible for setting it in motion again.
“The Revolutionary Boys star Alyosha Myraz is still at large,” said Nero on the public holo screen. It cut to footage of Aly scowling, then to the Eliedio exploding. The image always made her flinch. How many people had been on board the royal cruiser? How many crew members did the Eliedio require? She had never thought to ask, and now she regretted it. “The Kalusians have upped the reward to five hundred thousand credits.” Nero put his hand over his heart. He looked exhausted from the around-the-clock coverage.
Rhee had seen Nero with that same weary look on his face, just weeks after her family died. He’d been younger then and even more fresh-faced, without the tiny wrinkles across his forehead that he had now. It was her first interview since the accident—one she hadn’t wanted to give—but she had been urged by her advisers to restore the public’s faith. She’d felt numb as the cameras rotated around her. When Nero saw her face, he’d called them off. In private, he’d leaned over and squeezed her little shoulder. “The ancestors saw it was an honorable death,” he’d said. “Through them we ensure a new, worthy leader will rise.” Rhee remembered looking up at Nero, surprised and grateful. It had been the first time anyone had spoken to her like an adult.
“Don’t gape,” Dahlen said, pulling her from her memory as he nudged her along.
“I’ll finish what I started. Get ’em all.” Alyosha’s voice, amplified, boomed out over the space, as on the holo screen the Eliedio combusted into stardust.
The Revolutionary Boys star had been blamed for her murder, and Rhee had no idea why. She knew Seotra had opposed the measure to accept Wraetan refugees years ago, but would he really stoop so low as to frame the most high-profile Wraetan on DroneVision? Why was he so eager for war?
Rhee wondered how and why Seotra had chosen him. She’d seen his reality show—it was a little bit cheesy, which was exactly why she liked it. Vincent was the more popular star, with his blue eyes and easy smile, but she’d always preferred Aly, the black guy with the habit of shying away from the camera. She’d admired him for refusing to quit, too, after it came out he was Wraetan.
You’ve been blind, Veyron had said. Blind and willful.
“We haven’t discussed the plan should you fail,” Dahlen said.
“Your faith in me is heartwarming.” The plan was simple: She must get close enough to Seotra that she could sink Veyron’s blade deep into his heart. It was elegant, Rhee thought, that Seotra would die at a ceremony meant to mourn the princess he had tried to murder.
Dahlen was silent for a moment. “Hand me your knife.”
He produced a whetstone and wielded it lightly along the edge. She watched him impatiently. He moved with painstaking slowness, as if they had all the time in the world, as if there wouldn’t soon be a man on the other side of the knife.
Unexpectedly, he began to speak. “You can’t apply too much pressure to the blade,” he said. “You move the steel in the arc—one fluid motion, like so—so that the entire length of the edge sharpens equally. The angles must be precise.”
“It’ll work fine for my purposes either way,” Rhee said.
“A knife is not only for killing,” he replied. “A knife might be used a dozen different ways, all of them subtle, some of them unexpected. And you’ll be glad you planned ahead, worked all the angles, sharpened it to perfection . . .”
Dahlen was talking about the day she would become empress. Hadn’t Veyron said something similar—that Rhee needed to think, to plan?
“I was ready when Veyron came for me.” Rhee’s voice was without pride. It was laced instead with guilt, and anger, and the memory of the man’s blood-slicked hand reaching for hers as he died.
“It won’t be the same as it was with your trainer.” He remained focused on the blade. “Every death by your hand is different than the one that came before. You’ll be changed.”
“I’m counting on it.” She wanted to be changed. It was revenge that directed her focus and gave her purpose. The hole in her heart would finally be filled.