Four Dead Queens(47)

I scrambled on the polished marble floor, grasping on to the truth. “They kill you when they think it’s the right time?” My breath came out in bursts, not from exhaustion and lack of sleep but from shock. “How can they do that? How can they determine when it’s the right time? When is it ever the right time?”

“I told you. It’s the way our population is kept under control, to ensure our quadrant’s future. It’s how we flourish.”

I snorted. There was nothing flourishing about the Eonists. Controlled. Perfect, maybe. But suppressed. Smothered. No wonder Varin watched glimpses of another life and painted what he would never see.

I hadn’t witnessed any joy in Eonia during my short overnight stay. Their quadrant was undeniably stunning, and yet they were skimming over the surface of life, never really connecting to their environment, and certainly not to each other.

What was the point of it all? Where was the thrill of anticipation I experienced every evening at Mackiel’s auction house? Where was the drive and desire to know how everything worked and what it was worth? Sure, the Jetée was dark and dirty, but we all felt something. We cared. We lived.

“I thought you agreed not to judge,” he replied.

“When’s your death date?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“I’ll live until I’m thirty.”

I stumbled. “Thirty?”

“It’s shorter than most Eonist lifespans, yes.”

I grabbed his arm and twisted him to see his face, but it was blank, his eyes not meeting mine. He couldn’t speak callously of his own death. No one could.

“No, Varin.” I shook my head. “No. That’s shorter than my quadrant’s average lifespan. That’s shorter than all the quadrants’.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have a condition. It’s not terminal, but it’s a tax on society. So—”

“They’ll kill you for being a burden?” I spat the words at him. What was wrong with me? I should have been nicer to someone who’d told me he had little over a decade to live. But I was enraged, and his lack of emotion enraged me further. “That’s ridiculous!” I wanted to shake him to make him see the truth. Not what he’d been brainwashed into believing.

“We don’t have time to discuss my death date.”

I laughed cruelly. “Yeah, you do. You have about twelve years. Why not talk about it now?”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I really don’t. This isn’t normal, Varin.” And his reaction was even less so. “Why don’t you run? Escape Eonia?” He had access to the other quadrants as a messenger—he didn’t have to take his chances with the wall guards.

“Where would I go? What would I do?” Something behind his question made me believe he’d at least thought about it. “Eonia is everything I am and everything I will be.” But he wanted more; his collection of comm chips and paintings proved that.

“Until they kill you.”

“Come on.” He touched his messenger bag. “I need to find out who’s behind this.”

“The queens are already gone,” I said. “We can’t save them.”

“I know.”

“But you want to help the palace find the assassin. For what purpose? Justice? Revenge?” I spread my hands wide. “Why do you care so much for your queen?”

“Why do you care so little for yours?”

It wasn’t that I hated Queen Marguerite, but she was trying to destroy the Jetée, my home—my old home. “You seem to care more about Queen Corra’s death than you do your own death date. They’re already dead; you are not.”

Varin studied the floor.

“Varin. Varin, look at me.”

He hesitated but eventually lifted his head. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but didn’t. His brow was low, his full lips turned downward. Even his moon-like eyes seemed dimmer.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?” His voice was full of exhaustion. Despite his tall frame, he looked insignificant. Sure, we hadn’t slept all night, but there was something else there—years of fatigue. When he spoke about his art, I’d seen glimpses of a boy who wanted more than this life. But without hope, he’d been worn down, any fight left in him eradicated. Taught not to care, taught not to want. While I knew the feeling of being exhausted and infuriated by the hand you’d been dealt, I’d let it fuel me, while Varin had let it burn him down to nothing. But he had dreamed once; he’d had hope once—that had to be inside him. Somewhere.

“Why don’t you care about your own life?” I asked. “Why don’t you fight for yourself?”

“I do.” But there was little fire behind his words.

I shoved him in the chest. “Then prove it!”

“Why?” He turned the word back on me. “Why do you care?”

Good question. “Torians are curious creatures. Why is our favorite word.” But I knew that wasn’t the real reason. I wanted Varin to break free of the cage he’d put himself in, because I couldn’t break free of mine.

“I want to help the palace find the killer, as it’s the right thing to do,” he said finally.

“Right thing to do,” I muttered under my breath. How disappointing . . .