25. Paciscor

paciscor ~iscī ~tus, tr., intr.

1. to make a bargain or agreement; to arrange

Rax wins his second match the next morning. 3-0.

Mirelle wins hers at noon. 3-0.

In the hovercarriage to my second match, we pass the Hauteclare mansion—a monolith of marble and steel and blazingly green grass and tall, proud, well-fed white trees. Winged lions of marble guard their doors, and I stare at them. It feels real all of a sudden—everything.

“Is something bothering you, Synali?” Dravik asks.

“No.” Pause. “Yes.”

“Care to share with the class, or should I begin going down the list?”

“What did Astrix do to deserve execution?”

For a bare second, Dravik’s unreadable expression flickers, then settles. “My father is a fickle man. He simply discards people when they defy him. He discarded my mother like so much chattel, and the court descended on her. They stripped her of every title, every honor, and then sent her to death.”

I stare back at him. “They can do that? Dethrone a queen?”

“They can do whatever they want, Synali, as long as the king allows it.”

The hovercarriage arrives then at the tourney hall. It looms tall in polished steel beams and a mishmash of eye-catching LEDs in every color over its crystal dome. The crowd shuffles in by the hundreds, thousands, all to see a tourney. To see me. Dravik steps out of the carriage, and the cross above the entrance doors throws its long shadow over him. His fingers twitch off his cane, then hesitate because he knows it’s always hard for me, because he knows what it’s like to live running from shadows, maybe. Then he opens his hand to help me down. He could have. He could have killed me so many times before, but he’s worried about me more than anyone else has since Mother died.

The prince’s smile brightens. “Shall we show them they cannot do as they please any longer?”

The cross pendant clinks against my collarbone scar. I reach my hand into his, and this time, the buzzing beneath my skin isn’t so loud.

T-minus twenty minutes until my second match, I stare out from the tourney hall’s observation deck. Esther looks bigger today, a white silica storm spiraling across her green face. Somewhere out there is Earth. Somewhere, there are six other Stations full of humans scattered across the galaxy. The War was the beginning of life in space for humanity and the end of it: the alpha and the omega. Space began all life, and it’ll end all life, too, someday.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I’d know that voice anywhere—Sevrith. He stands to my left, his rider’s suit a shimmering blue-green color with brass accents.

He’s my next opponent.

When I don’t answer him, he runs a hand through his coiffed black hair, eyes pensively looking out at the universe. “Looks a bit like the sea. You ever see the sea beneath the noble spire?”

“I’ve heard about the monsters in it,” I say.

He smirks and folds himself in half to lean forward on the railing. “Could be true. It’s pretty deep.”

“There are no monsters,” I insist. “Only humans.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a brow at me. “Then what would you call the enemy?”

“They were aliens to us. And we were aliens to them.”

Sevrith laughs, and before I can duck away, his large hand messes up my hair. “Underneath all those scowls, you’re actually pretty soft, aren’t you?”

I scowl out at the stars as I fix my hair. Sevrith just laughs again, but it dies as his eyes take in Esther.

“When I was a kid, I used to pretend the stars out there were poked holes, like we were all trapped inside a big, dark box of some sort. Like how you trap a cricket and poke holes for it to breathe.”

“We don’t have crickets in Low Ward.”

“Shame—noble kids keep them in boxes. They make pretty sounds.” I feel rather than see his gaze turn toward me. “How about you? What do you think of space?”

“I’m afraid of it.”

“Why?”

Because the whole universe is full of nothing. Because there’s nothing left for me. I’m going to die when this is over. Dravik can’t spare me. He won’t. But if he did… Where would I go when it’s over? Where could I go? Where does a twisted girl like me fit in the universe? Everyone else is full, whole. No one wants the darkness—they want the stars.

I grip the railing. “I’m afraid it’s a cold dragon.”

He chuckles. “And what does this cold dragon want, do you think? Treasure? Princesses?”

“To eat us all.”

Sevrith stops running his mouth at last. He holds his helmet under his arm—celadon to match his suit, brass stag antlers crawling up either side. Finally, he chuckles again. “You know, you’re too young and pretty to be talking with such dourness.”

“And you’re far too old to consider me pretty,” I fire.

“Ha! Fiercer than an alley cat. No wonder Yatrice lost.”

“Yatrice lost because I was better than her.”

His chuckle this time stings, and he blithely offers a familiar handkerchief in his broad hand. “Rax asked me to give this to you before our match.”

I wave it away. “It’s a transparent attempt at bedding me. I’ve no use for it.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know, old man.”

He suddenly unsyncs his suit—the pneumatic hiss startling me—just enough to reach into his hair-graced chest and pull out an almost identical white handkerchief, though his is far older, worn through with holes and frayed threads.

“I have one, too, sweetheart. It’s not a gift to get you in bed—it’s standard protection.”

“From what? Sweat?”

“The spirals.”

I pause. “You mean the ones in the nerve fluid? But—”

“For all the assurances the academy makes us”—he cuts me off smoothly—“and for all the secrets the steedsmiths keep from us, every rider knows to wear a handkerchief over their heart. We tell each other. We keep each other safe. That’s the code among riders, as it has been since the War. Rax tried to tell you, and you ignored him. So it’s fallen to me.”

“I don’t need a piece of—”

“Someday, alley cat, the spirals will take you. They take us all, in the end. The suit makes it easy for them. But a bit of cloth over the heart is enough to slow them down—enough to remind you that you are only you.”

We stare at each other wordlessly. He looks lucid but sounds as mad as Dravik. I knew Heavenbreaker was dangerous the moment it rebooted and invaded my mind like a child rummaging through a sweet jar, but…what if those silver whorls are nanomachines with true AI in them? The nobles wouldn’t put true AI in all their steeds, would they?

Of course they would—if it meant getting the upper hand against another House, they would in a heartbeat, Station rules be damned. It would then become an arms race that forced them all to have it, with or without the king’s knowledge.

True AI is still just AI—a programmed brain given a machine body. It can’t “take” anyone, and a handkerchief wouldn’t protect against it even if it could.

Sevrith offers the handkerchief higher. “Rax is just worried about you. We all are.”

Worried? No—they’re worried a bastard with no academy training will win and shame them. My hand hesitates. Sevrith’s voice is patient, and his smile goes light the same way Dravik’s goes dark: all at once.

“Synali, we’ll meet on the field as equals or not at all.”

I hear his words, and then I hear them, the meaning beneath them—to him, this ragged thing is some kind of protection, and he won’t fight someone who refuses it. For Yatrice, riding meant defending another. For me, it means winning. For Sevrith, it means balance—a fair impact.

Slowly, I take the handkerchief, the embroidered sunflower on it rough against my fingers, and he winks the wink of my childhood.

“Thanks, kid.”