16. Indico

indicō ~āre ~āuī ~ātum, tr.

1. to make known, point out

“You’re the prince.”

“Former prince,” Dravik corrects me softly. “My mother was Queen Astrix vel Lithroi.”

Astrix. The shutdown command for the robot dog…and his mother’s name.

My brain works numbly; rumors of the queen’s death circulated in Low Ward when I was a child. I vaguely remember fragments—Mother’s friends coming over to whisper about a queen who lost her nobility and was executed for treason. She never had a public funeral. School shut down for the day. Neighbors blamed the rising price of bread on her death. I never heard what happened to the prince, but I knew he existed, like a distant star.

“I didn’t know princes could lose their titles,” I finally manage.

“They cannot, unless they give them up voluntarily.”

That’s what Sevrith meant when he said Dravik left the noble life. I stare at his soft profile, his gentle nose, the pixel scars from the surgery to hide his green eyes.

“I’ve had many surgeries,” Dravik murmurs. “To ensure I look nothing like him. We could do the same for you, if you wish.”

I catch my reflection in the tea that’s been served. Thin lips, thin brows—Father’s. My face has always been more his than Mother’s. The idea of tearing him out from inside me for good is tempting. Mirrors wouldn’t hurt so much anymore. I could look at myself with pride if I looked more like Mother.

I glance over at the white-and-gold Hauteclare table. They tried to kill me to hide their “mistake.” I clear my throat.

“No. I want everyone to know who I come from.”

Dravik’s smile is strained but true. He said his father killed his mother. The king killed Queen Astrix? No—she was executed…but I imagine the king could very well order the execution of anyone. The new queen and the crown princess are nowhere to be seen at the banquet, but I know the queen is the sickly sort—always cloistered for her health—and the princess is still very young.

And then it hits me.

Dravik wants to get back at the king. How exactly, when exactly…none of that’s clear, but what I am is: the pawn—the weakest piece in the game, the piece most underestimated, the piece no one sees coming. There’s a game going on between the king and his son, and I’ve walked right into it.

But as long as we win and they lose, I will play my part.

I watch the crowd, catching many riders I’ve studied on the vis. Behind every face is a jumble of stats, favored maneuvers, ages and heights and weights and steed names. I must defeat at least seven of them—seven to punish the seven who killed Mother. Fortuitously, seven is the same number of matches I need to win to reach the quarterfinals—to even have a chance of winning it all and dissolving House Hauteclare for good.

Suddenly, a projection podium emerges from the grass just in front of the king’s platform and rises up—a column for something to be displayed atop.

“It’s tradition for each participating rider to give a speech at the pre-Cup banquet,” Dravik clarifies.

I watch quietly. A noble girl alights on the projection podium and warns everyone she’ll win. She doesn’t know commoners get their throats slit in back alleys for the meager credits they earn betting on the likes of her. A noble boy gives thanks to his mother for birthing him, no matter the outcome of the Supernova Cup, but he doesn’t know a commoner could keep her children alive for another month with a single gold button from his breast coat. I have but one thought, listening to them, and it’s that the wolf only knows how badly the deer suffers when the tiger comes.

Mirelle Ashadi-Hauteclare finally steps onto the projection podium.

In person, she’s sharper, her white-gold dress clean and bright. Her chestnut hair is kept long and luxurious, and her posture screams practiced elegance. She has Father’s spine, his arrogant air. It’s like he’s alive in her.

“Mirelle Ashadi-Hauteclare—” Dravik starts.

“I know who she is.”

“A very good rider, and very intelligent,” he continues. “Quite prideful, but I suppose that goes without saying—the Hauteclares are all pride. She favors the tactics of the knights, honor and truth and et cetera. It shows in her matches—in my unbiased opinion, she is nothing if not dedicated, unflinching power.”

“And me?” I ask. “What am I in your unbiased opinion, Your Highness?”

His smile goes sideways. “You are…unconventional.”

“You certainly have a way of inspiring confidence.”

Dravik chuckles softly. “Your enemy’s greatest strength will be their weakness, too. The turtle’s shell is his strength, and yet it makes him slow. The falcon’s strength is his speed, but he flies too fast to see what’s to the side of him. Lady Mirelle is dedicated, and that means she does not change so easily.”

Inflexible, he means. It’s a useful thing to know on the tilt, but there are dozens of riders standing between her and me, still.

Countless news stations flash their vis to record every speech. The riders smile brighter and declare louder and raise their chins higher—surgery, media training, all of them athletic little dolls lined up on a shelf to be ogled at, and me the newest addition. My mind starts spiraling; if I’m unlucky, the seed will pair me with Mirelle in the first round. Or worse…

The master of ceremonies introduces the next rider to thunderous applause and synth-trumpets. “Please welcome Sir Rax Istra-Velrayd!”

Someone at the Velrayd table rises: tall, bleached white-blond hair slicked back, pieces of it left loose over dark brows and redwood eyes. I still can’t bring myself to look at his face for long, but his broad shoulders remain the same. He walks just like I remember—easy, slow, as if he has all the time in the world. He makes a bow to the king and steps onto the neon podium, the projection steadily rising under his crimson boots. He wears a crimson breast coat, its high collar lined with umber fur, and that grin to top it all off—free, light, infuriating.

“Must I bow to the king as well?” I ask Dravik. He hums idly.

“Only if you wish to. House Lithroi has earned that much, I think.”

Rax Istra-Velrayd motions for the applause to quiet down, but the court ignores it, jubilant at the mere sight of him. He taps his vis to project his voice, blue glow on red silk. “Ahem, thank you. But, please—much more and we’ll be here until terraform.”

The crowd breaks into laughter at his pathetic joke, and he waits for them to quiet, looking in my direction. I watch only the blacklight halo painted on his proud forehead and think, When we meet again on the tilt, that’s where I’ll put my lance.

“He’s one of the most talented riders we’ve had in a century.” Dravik stirs his tea. “A formidable natural talent, some say—born with it—but I suspect it’s more straightforward than that.”

“Straightforward how?”

“His parents once inhabited the lowest rung of House Velrayd. The rumors say they’ve had him in the saddle since he was five in an attempt to raise their status through tourney. Highly frowned upon to have a child ride without first entering him in the academy, but it’s not illegal. Regardless, it seems to have worked; his father was granted the title of baron by Duke Velrayd when Rax was twelve, shortly after he won the Icarus Cup.”

No wonder. The idea of a five-year-old in the saddle…I was terrified. I can’t imagine how scared he was.

Don’t imagine, don’t pity. He is the enemy.

“Weakblood,” Dravik says. “It means ‘leech.’ ‘Hanger-on.’ It’s what nobles call people like Rax behind his back—far removed from the main family line and with little hope of inheriting anything of import.”

“The opposite of you, then,” I mutter. His laughter is made richer by the honey of the tea.

“Says the only daughter of a very powerful duke. You and I know a bastard is far worse than a weakblood.”

“Why is Rax so popular if they think him a weakblood?”

“He’s simply that excellent at riding. He’s personable, charismatic, humorous when most nobles can’t tell the difference between a joke and a distant star system. Being as handsome as he is helps, too.”

I curl my lip. “What’s his weakness, then?”

Dravik watches him over the rim of his teacup. “I’m not sure yet.”

Rax finishes his speech and steps off the podium to a deluge of applause. Even the king claps, his jester doing ecstatic little flips. The excitement lasts until the master of ceremonies announces House Lithroi. The garden descends into confused glances, and murmurs choke the air quiet.

“Ah.” Dravik’s sunny smile defies the king’s stony expression. “I believe it’s your turn, Synali. Say what you will.”

“Anything? Even the truth?”

“Especially the truth.”

I rise and stride through the rows of noble-infested tables to the podium. Rax and I will pass each other in the grassy aisle. Five weeks was enough time to forget just how intimidating he is—the vis screen made him seem smaller than the towering scaffold of bone and muscle approaching me now. I keep my gaze on the king’s throne. We draw even, a sizzle in the air moving ahead of him that only I seem to feel. In the redirected sun, his hair shines platinum and his dark redwood irises catch gold flakes—a futile warmth. We’re too close again, too soon. Why is this making me nervous? He’s just another noble.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rax shoot me a smile.

“See you in the arena, huh?”

My retort is instant. “Not for very long, I imagine.”

We pass each other—a parting of red silk and blue silk—and then the king’s green eyes are on me.

I do not bow.

Murmurs resound. The jester pretends to faint dead off his stilts, little arms over littler chest. The guards shift in their hard-light chain mail, but the king only waits, gaze riveted to my dress—the blue and silver of it. I stand on the podium, and it rises in buzzing neon. House Hauteclare watches, Mirelle sitting at their table. They all watch: the nobles, the priests, the news stations, Rax and Sevrith and Dravik. The seven who killed her. Somewhere out there on the Station, is their puppet assassin watching me, too?

I tap my vis to life. I’ve had time to practice what comes next.

“My name is Synali von Hauteclare. My mother’s name was Gabriyll Jean Woster. She was murdered ten months ago by seven people attending this banquet.”

I’m too high up to hear the impact, but I see it—stillness, hands over mouths. With those two names, they know I’m a bastard, and they know whose. The entire court rockets their eyes to the table in white and gold, to one another, to King Ressinimus. I pull my dress farther down on my chest; stays and bra lace, but I don’t care—flesh to air until it burns.

“This scar is proof: the seven murdered my mother and tried to murder me.”

The crowd below me writhes, turning to one another, looking to the guards, standing up and shaking fists at me. Mirelle does not move. House Hauteclare does not move, and neither does Dravik. I can read him better now, if only in fractured increments; his eyes crinkle almost…proudly. Sevrith laughs and shakes his head. Rax hasn’t blinked away from me once.

I will give them warning as Father never gave us.

“The seven of you have until the first round of the Supernova Cup to contact any major news outlet. You will proceed to make a public announcement on the vis admitting to your crimes in detail. If you do not do this, your lives will be forfeit.”

Finally, the crowd bursts.

Their outrage splits the peaceful garden, and the guards have finally had enough, laser sights prickling on my skin, but I came expecting resistance—Dravik brought me here expecting resistance. He never warned me off any of it—he told me to say the truth. For a bare second, fear roars in my ears; if they shoot me now, it’s over. Everything I worked for. Everything I suffered through.

My eyes slide to the former prince—you wouldn’t bring me here just to die, would you?

A bead of sweat carves its way down Dravik’s soft temple. He is not a man who sweats or cries or spits. He is contained, and yet his lips now move in a word long familiar to me, carved on my eardrums by the drone of relentless training…

“Hold.”

The true meaning of words was something I took for granted before him, before riding Heavenbreaker. To hold means to be patient—to wait when all you want to do is run. Endure until it’s too late.

Hold, even as the universe tries to tear you apart.