41. Saxum

saxum ~ī, n.

1. a stone; large, rough fragment of rock

Rax Istra-Velrayd hates his parents’ parties the most.

It’s the way people hover around him in the ballroom—circling, watching, appraising, like he’s some piece of meat to be summed up in neat parts and auctioned off to the highest bidder. “Goodness, what large biceps he has!” “Very well portioned, that one is.”

But it’s the things said to his face that are far worse, lustful aunts grinning and nosy old uncles scheming behind wineglasses in deluded approximations of subtlety. “Tell me, Sir Rax—is riding as exhilarating as they say?” “I do so wish someone like you were my son-in-law.” “Such a tragedy—our House hasn’t been blessed with good rider genes in well over half a century.”

How he still manages to fend them off after all these years without his smile cracking, he has no idea. Practice, probably—practice until there are grooves his body follows when his mind refuses to. All he knows is that the wine is his best friend and the balconies are his greatest escape. From one such balcony he watches a church barge float between the neighboring manse tops, trailing too-sweet incense and the faint chant of vespers as it goes.

For the fifth time today, he checks his vis. No pings. Well, pings—from his mother, his father, Mirelle, ten ad companies and four talk shows and Sunscreamer’s crewhead, but no pings from her.

He promised he wouldn’t bother her, but the memory of that kiss won’t stop bothering him. Every time he mentally combs through those moments, he finds something new to languish in—the feel of her mouth, the sensation of her hair on his fingers, the exact temperature of her skin. Kissing her had been like kissing for the very first time—breathtaking and disorienting—just like the way she rode. He’s certain, now; whatever she is at her core, he wants to face it. Hold it. Watch it grow.

There can’t be a second time. He knows that. There’s a fine line, he’s well aware—seen too many creepy noblemen harassing ladies to the point of criminal—but he’s worried; riding in only three matches and getting a bleed isn’t normal. If her nerve-fluid resistance is really that low, Lithroi can’t keep forcing her to ride, or else she’ll—

“You think too loudly.”

He looks up at the voice—Mirelle. She leans on the banister next to him, and they watch the church barge float into the shallow, arced horizon of the noble spire on its way to the much wider horizon of Mid Ward. Mid Ward’s damage from the Endurance and Theta-7 still lingers—hard-light repair scaffolds spread out over various sectors as thick as orange webs—but the damage is still considered minimal compared to how the Under-ring fared. Not that anybody of import cares—the Under-ring is for the forsaken and the damned. They bear their own losses and rebuild themselves.

“How is your back feeling?” Mirelle asks.

“Better.” He grins. “Thanks for the first aid.”

The silence is almost therapeutic against the chatter of the party behind them, but Mirelle isn’t the type to keep quiet when something’s on her mind.

“She’s made her choice, Rax. We all did the moment we entered the academy.”

“She didn’t go to the academy.”

“She chose nonetheless.” Mirelle sighs. “The family’s not happy she lived.”

“’Course they aren’t. She’s been going around—”

“It’s not her. Not directly. She rides and wins, yes, but she’s not the one who kills them. That’s someone else. The former prince, Grandmother thinks—the one who’s sponsoring her.”

“Is he really the prince? No one will talk about him, and they”—he jerks his head inside—“always fucking talk.”

“I don’t want to talk about him, either.”

“You don’t care if the fuckin’ crown prince comes back?”

“He can’t come back. We have a crown princess, now. He’s a legal bastard, and bastards do not rise—they fall and then disappear.”

Sleeping together once over four months ago is only the newest stage in their relationship—Rax has known her all his life, since the very first day at the academy, when they lined up in their little uniforms and swore fealty to the king for the first time, chubby fists and chubbier cheeks. She’d never admit to her own negative feelings out loud; negativity is below a Hauteclare. Still, it’s clear she’s not talking about the bastard prince anymore. He stares out at the green glow of Esther hanging above and beyond the Station’s honeycomb shield.

“What if your House really did it? Killed her mother, like she said at the banquet.”

“Nonsense,” Mirelle scoffs. “Bastards are not a Hauteclare problem.”

He gives her that c’mon now look, and she sets her chin.

“We are not the other Houses. We are Hauteclare, descended from the first knights—honor is our currency, as trade is yours. Killing defenseless commoners is simply not in our creed. Besides, one does not need to kill people to be rid of them. Father says we have other uses for them.”

“And you believe him whole hog?”

She blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just don’t make a habit of trusting adults. But you do whatever you want.”

“We’re adults now, too, you know.”

“Barely.” He points listlessly into the party. “And they’re already frothing at the mouth to marry us off.”

She scowls. “’Tis our duty, Rax. Marriage, the continuation of the House—it falls to us. It’s why we were born, why our parents before us were born and their parents before them. It’s not an option—it’s an obligation.”

He glowers into his wineglass, now too unfull for his liking. He knows—he’s always known. It was inevitable, but he could always push it a little further off: A girl, another inch away. A night in the clubs, another inch. Suddenly, below the balcony, a shadowy figure moves through the bushes. Mirelle narrows her eyes, but Rax cups his mouth and whisper-shouts as best he can.

“Sneaking out again, Yavn?”

The shadowy figure whirls, his cousin’s obsidian eyes crinkling up at him. “Not if you keep your voice up like that. I’ll see you at my place later?”

Rax flashes him a thumbs-up, and Yavn disappears into the garden, the white-and-gold uniforms of the new guards glinting bright on Peregrine Fervor’s perimeter. Rax doesn’t relish the idea of trying to sneak out of the manse later.

“You shouldn’t indulge him.” Mirelle snorts. “Especially not after the Endurance.”

“Oh, c’mon, Mir. Yavn’s not a rebel.”

“No—he just espouses their beliefs at every dining opportunity.”

“Wanting commoners to have better lives isn’t rebellion. It’s doing the right thing. The knightly thing.” At her silence, he yanks the helm of the conversation in the opposite direction. “I’ve been thinking—”

“God forbid.”

“—Hauteclare came to me after one of my matches. She said her steed’s been…talking to her. That when she blacks out in the saddle, she sees memories. Other people’s.”

“Steeds don’t talk.” Mirelle rolls her eyes. “Or have memories. Perhaps she’s losing her mind—that would explain all the murder.”

“Mir, think about it,” he insists. “Have you ever heard of someone getting a bleed after their third match? No one’s nerve-fluid resistance is that low.”

“She could’ve practiced before the Cup.”

“We both know practice doesn’t cause buildup. Only real impacts do.”

She scowls into her champagne glass. “What are you trying to say?”

“What if it’s not something wrong with her,” he starts, “but something wrong with her steed? You’re the one who checks the archive all the time—can’t you look up Heavenbreaker?”

“It’s rich that you think I haven’t already. Everything’s redacted.”

“Redacted how? Redacted like someone deleted it, or redacted like court redacted, or—”

“Redacted like Hellrunner.”

Like Hellrunner? Why would the information on the Lithroi steed be treated like the information on the king’s steed? Is it because Lithroi is the former prince, or… A scarlet dress cuts toward the balcony then, and Rax swears and stands straight. Mother. She sweeps over and curtseys in perfect form to Mirelle, her blond nest of braids bobbing and her smile warm.

“There you are, Rax. I was afraid I’d have to hunt you down like the police with those awful rebels. Lady Mirelle—what a pleasure it is to have an illustrious guest like you at our little soiree.”

Mirelle makes a crisper curtsey back. “Lady Konstance. You are too modest—it is a grand affair.”

“Thank you again for lending Peregrine Fervor your family’s guards. It puts my heart at ease.” Mother looks to Rax. “I hope our son hasn’t been offending you overmuch. He has that tendency.”

“On the contrary—we were engaging in an enlightening conversation about…” Her gaze catches on the church barge in the distance. “The Lord. Weren’t we?”

Rax nods along. “God, the saints—all the usual suspects.”

Mother’s smile stops touching her eyes. “You will mind your irreverent manners before our guest.”

He manages a grin. “Doing my best, Mother. Why? Is it not good enough for you?”

Her green eyes go dark, and she extends her hand to him with the air of someone who’s won. “Would you excuse us, Lady Mirelle? I must present my son to House Trentoch and House Michel—they have several ladies expressing interest in him.”

Rax’s jaw flickers. “Interest” is just another word for the marriage game. Mirelle looks to him, then to his mother, and then inside. She hesitates. He looks right at her. Get me out of it. Make up some excuse. You’re Hauteclare—she’ll listen to you.

“Unless…” Mother trails off, a thought forming in her smiling lips. “Unless you have an interest as well, Lady Mirelle?”

It’s a game his mother’s been playing since he was born, but the look on Mirelle’s face is anything but a game—hard gold eyeshadow and carbon-steel lips, and the music of the party fades as Rax’s chest sinks into his boots. Tell me you haven’t fallen for it, Mir. Not you too.

Not you, too.