17. Gravo

gravō ~āre ~āuī ~ātum, tr.

1. to burden, weigh down

2. to oppress or overpower

“Hold.”

King Ressinimus’s voice bites down on the court’s throat, and the sounds of outrage die cleanly. The guards lower their guns, the sea of red laser sights on my skin sinking as the king rises from the throne, a dour-faced pillar of gold and purple silk.

“The Great War Treaty of 3067 states the following.” His voice is measured. “A rider’s personal vendetta is ratified by the knightly code of honor—chivalrie—and will not be impeded or punished for as long as they continue to ride.”

I don’t know treaties or codes, but I know a threat when I hear one: as long as they continue to ride.

“Will you ride?” hangs in the air, in the emerald stare from the man who rules the Station, whose family has always ruled the Station. I lift my chin.

“I will be riding in the Supernova Cup for House Lithroi.”

Another ripple tears through the court, the Lithroi table the only one absolutely still, Dravik the only one smiling. He knew about this treaty. Of course he knew—he’d never send me into a situation we could not turn to our advantage.

Getting off the podium is far more terrifying than walking onto it—the path back to Dravik’s table is suddenly lined with a thousand burning eyes. I manage to make it without anyone grabbing for me—such is the “breeding” and “manners” of the nobility, and for once I’m glad of it. They cannot rip my face off. They can only appear to want to rip my face off.

Dravik smiles when I sit down. “You did well.”

“I did what you wanted me to,” I counter.

“Is that not what I said?” His smile crooks, and his eyes wander over my shoulder. “Ah, it seems you’ve garnered even the church’s attention.”

I glance to where he’s looking—a veiled woman with inky floor-length hair speaks lowly to three priests in white-and-red robes. Her dress is pale pink with a fog of cream lace that drapes over her body with ease. The woman is subtle about looking our way through her long lashes, but the priests are not.

“Talize san Michel,” Dravik says. “A good rider but a far superior businesswoman. She is very devout, and she develops drugs for the nobility’s recreational use on the side.”

I snort. “Hypocrite.”

“I’d gather that is rather the point of the church, Synali; to be a hypocrite means perhaps to one day be saved.”

“Will the church be a problem?”

His smile widens. “Only if our enemies manage to make as many friends among the priesthood as I have.”

The servants whirl in with trays of food then. I can feel dozens of eyes on me as I pick at roasted fish and brandy boar and fruit pastries clearly designed to impress. I can’t taste any of it. Every candied cherry and gold leaf flake is a reminder of everyone I knew in Low Ward starving. The adrenaline of everyone in this garden watching me is making me nauseous.

“Dravik, where are the—”

He points to a miniature hedge maze. “Be careful. The guards can only see so much, and you now have a target on your back.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” I drawl as I stand. “Believe it or not, that made my nausea worse.”

Dravik smiles into his teacup. I fiddle my way through the hedge maze and manage to unlock the hard-light watershed. The darkened orange light obscures the world outside and cuts out all sound. Two gold-etched stalls stand side by side, and I let out a sigh of relief when I realize they’re both empty. Cold water against my face doesn’t work in slowing my heart. I pull Mother’s pendant out and rub my thumb over it desperately.

“Don’t turn cowardly now,” I whisper into the mirror, into the reflection of my chest scar. Seven circles. Seven matches. I can do this. They can intimidate me all they like—it will not change their fate.

I walk out of the watershed and freeze.

In front of it, in the long, lush grass, a pair of imprints lingers. Footprints. They look as if someone was standing barefooted, watching the watershed for a long while—the grass is indented and dark. But there are no footprints leading to the stance. Or away. No sign of life anywhere. My body goes cold.

“synali”

That soft, faint voice—the one I hear in the saddle. I hear it now, deep in my ears as if it’s coming from inside me. Like a thought. Like a saddle-thought of go or more or turn.

“Hello?” I try.

The footprints lift, as if an invisible someone is moving, and the grass bends around new footprints as they walk off into the hedge. At the same moment, three young men in orange breast coats trimmed in ash gray round the hedge corner toward me.

My heart jumps into my throat and then settles. Real people. Not ghosts or hallucinations. I’m almost grateful for their sudden presence. If Dravik was with me, he’d tell me who they are, but my best guess is one, noble, and two, here to hurt me, if their grins as they swagger over are any indication. The middle one is obviously the leader—a gargantuan specimen of a noble with hands like shovels and hair like the center of a holocandle.

“Oho, who do we have here, boys?” The middle one guffaws. I stand ground—running is pointless against bullies. They quickly surround me, cutting off any escape.

“My name is Synali von Hauteclare.” I make my words clear. “And yours?”

The middle one scoffs. “That’s not how this works, little bastard. You don’t get the privilege of me telling you my name.”

“Make her lick your boots, Olric.” The left noble snickers. A laugh bursts from me at how juvenile the idea is. The three of them go still, and the middle one drops his posture.

“What’s so funny, bastard?”

“I’ve licked boots before, you know. It’s not all bad.” His two accomplices frown, but I smile brighter. “Is this all you brought? I’m used to far more men beating on me at once. Far meaner ones, too.”

A hard yank on my collar pulls me into Olric and up, my feet dangling and my smile fading. He’s at least six-five, maybe six-six, and every muscle is now evident. A rider. I thought they were all spoiled nobles without any real training… I didn’t know— I can’t breathe. If I were taller I could reach for his eyes, but he keeps me so far I can’t even kick—

The sound of a hard-light pistol safety cocking back is unmistakable, and a cool voice emanates from somewhere behind Olric. “Put her down.”

He curls his lip. “Mirelle.”

I swallow lumps—Mirelle? Ashadi-Hauteclare? Saving me?

“Oh? I wasn’t aware we were on first-name terms, Olric. I assumed that after the defeat I handed you in the Chrysanthemum Qualifier, you would know better.”

Her words are icy. A bead of sweat condenses on Olric’s massive forehead as he asks, “How did you get a gun in?”

“Oh, Olric. Always needing things to be spelled out for you. Whose family do you think trains these guards? Four of them are waiting just outside for you.”

His two accomplices let out sudden yelps and scatter into the hedge. My collar cuts into my spine, and just as I start seeing stars, Olric releases me. My boots hit grass again, and I massage my neck as I watch him saunter into the maze, girth barely scraping through the greenery. And then…we’re alone. Mirelle Ashadi-Hauteclare stands in front of me. Like Rax, she’s even more her close up, like a pristine statue of a saint. She tucks her hard-light pistol into a holster on her impeccably white breeches and fixes me with a golden stare.

“So.”

“S-So?” I croak. “Why put it a-away? Sh-Shoot me now. I’m going to destroy House Hauteclare.”

The noise she makes is neither a laugh nor a scoff but something icier. Less caring. Like the noises Father made. She’s so much like Father that my body trembles just being around her—his same nose, his same…aura. She flicks her sheet of silky hair behind her.

“You truly understand nothing, pretender.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“Nobles don’t announce when they’re going to kill each other,” she says slowly, as if I’m a toddler. “They plan for it and stay quiet about it. Your little display today was an obvious bluff. The only thing you accomplished was making a fool of yourself and your defunct House.”

“Then why did you just save me?” I demand. “Why not let them beat me?”

“Because,” she says simply. “The Westrianis are unrestrained brutes. And a knight does not stand by and watch the defenseless suffer.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You think me defenseless? And yourself a knight?”

Her golden eyes go hard. “I’m more knight than you, liar.”

I stare at her, and she at me. We are both each other’s enemies, and we are both each other’s blood. I walk past her and to the hedge exit, pausing once before the green.

“Whatever you think of me, I’m not a liar—my father was Farris von Hauteclare. I will destroy our House, and our family will die.”

This time, she smiles—crystal-covered and sharp.

“Let us meet on the field, then, and decide that for ourselves.”

Post-banquet, the entire court lines up to say farewell to the king.

Dravik is mysteriously absent, leaving me the only Lithroi in the two long lines of nobles standing at attention on the grass. They bow and curtsey as the king passes, his violet train dragging long, and then it stops…in front of me. Nova-King Ressinimus pauses just before me with the excuse of waiting for his jester to catch up. He fixes his stony expression straight ahead, like a man used to looking above crowds.

“You’re certain you’ll compete,” King Ressinimus says. In Heavenbreaker’s saddle, I’ve learned words have so many more meanings beneath the surface, and his sizzle. You’re certain you wish to kill seven members of my court?

“Yes,” I say. There’s a silence, the jester’s bells growing closer. “You could stop me.”

“No,” he exhales softly. “If you are who you say you are, then they must deal with you, not I.”

“But…I’m going to kill them,” I insist. “They’re your court, and you—”

His age shows when he finally looks down his nose at me, all lines and sunspots that his regal makeup barely hides. “I will not stop you, Synali von Hauteclare.”

My throat goes dry. “Why?”

“Because long ago he gave me his warning, too. And I did not listen.”

The jester catches up, and then the king sweeps away. He alights in his grand violet hovercarriage adorned with a snarling dragon, gold claws curled over its vents, and is gone.

“He gave me his warning, too.”

He slips to my side when the nobles finally disperse. He slides into the silver Lithroi hovercarriage when it floats down to the landing zone to take us back to Moonlight’s End. He doesn’t speak until the palace is a shrunken thing through the back window.

“You did well, stonewalling Rax. And I heard the Westrianis were chased away from you by Lady Mirelle.”

I ignore him. “Where were you when we were saying goodbye to the king? You left me on my own.”

Dravik smiles. “I knew you could handle it.”

“He spoke to me. He said he wouldn’t stop me.”

“The treaty he cited today was a post-War treaty, but there are pre-War treaties, too. The king cannot stop a bastard from riding. If he tried, he’d be calling the pre-War treaty into question and therefore calling every other pre-War treaty into question—including the one that certifies the Ressinimuses’ right to rule. It would be opening the floodgates leading to civil war. And he knew this.”

“So we used his greatest strength against him—the court.”

Dravik’s eyes glimmer—that proud look again. “Indeed. Humanity could not be choosy in the War about who rode and who didn’t; if a rider wishes to ride—and they have access to a steed—they cannot legally be kept from the tilt, no matter their lineage or status.”

“But no commoners or bastards have ridden post-War,” I argue. “Or the vis would’ve been buzzing about it.”

“Naturally—the nobles ensure the steedcraft industry is highly regulated in their favor, and all pre-War treaties are kept under lock and key. Commoners don’t even know riding is an option. Bastards might, but they’re murdered before they can attempt it. Occasionally, they’re exiled to various substations to do back-breaking labor until their spirits die—or they do. Of their injuries, of course—no foul play involved.”

His smile doesn’t falter. I glance at his cane, the sapphires glimmering differently against his injured knee.

“That still doesn’t explain why the king let my death threats slide,” I insist.

“With no enemy to fight, an army often turns on itself. The court is no exception. In order to keep post-War peace among the various Houses, riders were granted special privileges; as long as a rider participates in a tourney, whatever ‘disagreement’ they have with another House is allowed. It’s a duel by another name—if one House is not strong enough to meet the other on the field and defeat them, they’re considered weak and therefore must deserve whatever fate befalls them.”

“So?”

“So the king cannot touch you, and neither can the court. This doesn’t mean they won’t try, but that’s why I’m here.”

“I can protect myself,” I blurt. He smiles.

“I know. You have been for a long while, now.”

My chest winds tight and strange beneath my scar. Dravik presses on.

“Every other House will be looking at House Hauteclare to confirm or deny your bastard blood—if they confirm it, the king could strip their privileges, or better yet declare their House status null and void, erasing their nobility and disbanding them forever.”

Forever. The way it rolls off his tongue tastes like golden-fruit hope, real hope.

“The king hates murdering worthless commoners that much?”

“No—but if the truth comes out in a public way, Duke Hauteclare’s murder will be seen as a failing on House Hauteclare’s part; that they couldn’t control their secrets—or their bastards—well enough and therefore suffered the consequences. Again, ’twould be seen as weak, unfit. And weakness is the one thing not permitted in the Nova-King’s court.”

“So they’d be forgiven for killing me but not for letting me live.”

His smile warms. “Precisely.”

The hovercarriage passes a wasteful water fountain, the spray glinting rainbow in the simulated moonlight emanating from the round, pale hologram high above the noble spire. I feel sick—pastry and acid and the burn of the past rise like molten foam. Push it down. Move forward. This banquet was nothing but window dressing for the real thing—a pretty curtain for the imminent bloodbath. They’ve met me, and I’ve met them. They know more than me. They’ve won more than me. How many rounds can I even win before I inevitably lose? I’ve tossed and turned over that question—two? Three? I want all seven people to die. I want all seven wins. I want to win the Supernova Cup and destroy House Hauteclare forever, but if I lose even once, that will not happen.

“Even if I fail, you’ll uphold the contract?” I ask the prince. “You’ll give me rest?”

“You won’t fail, Synali.”

“Even if I fail, you’ll give me rest?” I repeat, stronger. Dravik’s gray eyes catch moonlight, melting.

“Yes.”

The hovercarriage deposits us back at the Lithroi manse, and the moment I walk in, the robot-dog rushes over to greet us, tail wagging. Dravik ignores it, but I bend.

“Hello, little one.”

Its sapphire eyes gleam up at me with simulated happiness. I stand and heel-click through the halls to the bunker door, shedding my stuffy dress and ribbons as I go. Seeing Mirelle and Rax up close has me convinced—I need to get as much practice in as I can before the Cup starts.

The cold air of Moonlight’s End feels less strange on my skin these days, as if I’ve grown used to its grave stillness. My bare feet pad on the subzero marble. Quilliam bows as I pass, gaunt body creaking and his eyes respectfully on the floor. My practice rider’s suit waits on a nearby hook, gray and colorless and imprinted with my shape, with near three-months’ worth of sweat and blood. A tap on the suit cuffs and the leather-like material ripples to my naked skin instantly, sealing shut up the spine with a dry hiss.

I step out to see Dravik waiting at the bunker door, the dog at his heels.

“Does it have a name?” I ask, nodding at the robot.

“No.” His word rings hard. The pearl, the sapphires, the childish laser artwork—I can see now that it’s clearly a prince’s dog, something from his past he doesn’t want to face but cannot let go.

“Your mother’s name is the shutdown command,” I press.

“Of course. She made it. As she made Heavenbreaker.”

I go still. “She made Heavenbreaker?”

“‘Made’ is not the right word. ‘Conceived of’ is perhaps better.”

“‘Conceived’? What are you talking about?”

Dravik laughs lightly and inspects his cane, and I know I’m not getting anything else out of him. Still, it’s impressive—I had no idea the former queen was so good at robotics. I adjust my wrist cuffs.

“Why did the king kill her?”

His face goes minutely tight. “She tried to change things. He gave her a choice—public execution or private suicide. She chose the latter.”

“Is that why you’re doing all this?” I ask. “For revenge?”

I’ve thought about this many times before—what could winning the Supernova Cup achieve for a man like him? Is it to make a point to his father—win the greatest Cup on the Station with a bastard? Or is it something more?

Dravik’s smile returns. “I want to see if we can put to rest all the ghosts that came before and all the ghosts that will come after.”

I scoff. “You can’t stop death.”

“No,” he agrees with a chuckle. “But we can make it think twice.”

The prince looks down the hall then, tenderly, as if someone he cares for stands in the wedge of simulated moonlight. He does this sometimes—in quiet moments, he stares at nothing. But this time is different. This time, the dog’s faded golden nose points in the same direction, at the same square of moonlight, its ears pricked and tail wagging as if it’s greeting someone.

As if we aren’t alone at all.

My blood runs as cold as it did in the hedge maze. Dravik merely smiles brighter.

“Good luck with your practice, Synali.”