Golden Son (Red Rising Trilogy, #2)(98)

Sevro cuts open a half dozen of the meals and nibbles throughout the journey, sharing with the Telemanuses and his Howlers while Roque sits speaking with Victra in the corner. Mustang leans against Daxo, sharing stories with Kavax about Pax. She avoids my gaze.

I tried apologizing before we boarded the ship, but she cut me off fastlike. “Nothing to apologize about. We’re adults. Let’s not sulk and bicker like children. There’s things to be done.”

The words grow colder as I roll them over and over again through my mind.

Lorn nudges me with his boot. “Try to be less obvious, boy. You’re staring.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Love and war. Same coin. Different sides. I’m too wrinkled for either.”

“Maybe war will breathe some life into your old bones.”

“Well, I tried love last month.” He leans close. “Didn’t work like it used to.”

“Too honest, Lorn.” I can’t help but laugh.

He grunts and adjusts himself on the boxes, groaning audibly as something pops in his back. “So that’s the reason for all this. Helping poor old man Lorn get his fix of war.” His anger has not yet dissipated, nor do I expect it to. “Let me return the favor to you. The key today will be tact. The Praetors, Legates, and bannermen you attempt to woo are not fools. And they do not suffer fools. Pliny has given them valid argument. He’s aligned their interests with his. You must counter with the same.”

“Pliny is a leech,” I say. “A liar as much as you’re an honest man.”

“And that makes him dangerous. Liars make the best promises.” Lorn plays with his griffin ring, no doubt thinking of the beast and of the grandchildren on his ships in the fleet. He brought his whole household off of Europa, three million men and women of all Colors. “I could not leave them,” he told me when I noted the size of his fleet as we left that water moon. “Octavia would come and burn the home while we’re away.” So they left their floating cities and set to the stars. The civilians will separate from my fleet soon, hiding in the infinite black space between the planets. His three surviving daughters-in-law will guide them.

“And Pliny has the power of the Sovereign behind him,” Lorn continues. “It will be difficult to dissuade them. Speaking of the Sovereign … I noticed that you have something of hers.”

“The Pax?”

“No. Smaller. Though not much smaller. The Stained that was here.”

“Ragnar?”

“If that’s its name,” Lorn says.

“His name,” I say. “He was meant to be a gift to the Julii for betraying Augustus.”

“Saw it in the Citadel’s arena once—scary as some of the things that hide in Europa’s seas.”

“He might be an Obsidian, but he’s still a man.”

“Biologically, maybe. But he’s bred for one thing. Don’t forget that.”

“You treat your own servants kindly. I expect you to treat mine the same.”

“I treat people kindly. Pinks, Browns, Reds are people. Your Ragnar is a weapon.”

“He chose me. Tools don’t choose.”

“Have it your way, but know the consequences.” Lorn shrugs and mutters something further under his breath.

“Say what you want to say.”

“You’re going to fall into trouble because you believe that exceptions to the rule make new rules. That a bad man can be good simply because he says he can or simply because he does so once when you are watching. Men do not change. That is why I killed the Rath boy. Learn the lesson now, so you don’t have to learn it with a knife in your back later. The Colors exist for a reason. Reputations exist for a reason.”

For the first time, he seems small and old to me. It’s not his wrinkles. It’s what he says. He is a relic. Thoughts like his belong to the age I am trying to destroy. He can’t help what he believes. He’s not seen what I’ve seen. He’s not come from where I’ve been. He had no Eo to push him, no Dancer to guide him, no Mustang to give him hope. He grew up in a Society where love and trust are as scarce as grass in the desert. But he’s always wanted both. He’s like a man planting seeds, watching them grow into trees, only for his neighbors to cut them down. It will be different this time. And if all goes well, I will give him back a grandson.

“You taught me once, Lorn. I’m a better man for it. But now it’s my turn to teach you. Men can change. Sometimes they have to fall. Sometimes they have to leap.” I pat his knee and gain my feet. “Before you die, you’ll realize it was a mistake to kill Tactus, because you never gave him the chance to believe he was a good man.”

I find Ragnar lying on the ground in the freezer unit, at home in the bitter chill. His shirt is off, so I see the frightening angles of his tattooed body. Runes everywhere. Protection over his back. Malice over hands. Mother over his throat. Father over his feet. Sister behind his ears. The mysterious skull marks of Stained upon his face.

“Ragnar,” I say, sitting. “Not much for company, are you?”

He shakes his head, the white ponytail curls on the floor. Eyes like stains of pitch stare at me, measuring. Second eyes, tattoos on the backs of his eyelids, are strange, pupils like those of a dragon or a snake, so that when he blinks, his animal soul sees into the world around.