CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
To Choose
If you stayed in your own room, sitting cross-legged on your own bed, you didn’t need to think about your big, stubborn cousin being the only thing standing between you and more shooting.
You didn’t need to think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Zzap! He’s shooting—
No. Not that, either.
Adon stood up. He could change clothes again, but he’d already done that twice. The layers of colored fabric all around the walls were not as comforting as they should have been.
Then a quiet knock came on his Maze door, and his heart lifted. “Aloran? Is that you?”
Imbati Aloran came in, quietly shutting the door behind him. Maybe they could sit together awhile, in silence. That would be just perfect . . .
“Adon, I’ve received a message for you,” Aloran said. “It’s from the Headmaster.”
“Oh?” He shook his head. “Why?”
“He’s concerned for your safety,” said Aloran. “He’s also concerned that you’re coming under pressure to accept a position as the First Family’s candidate for Heir.”
“Oh.” Under pressure—that was one way of putting it. He was being crushed into a tiny box, unable to scream, or run. “Did you tell him I was trying not to?”
Aloran met his eyes reprovingly. “It makes no difference to the Headmaster if you’re trying or not. If you become the First Family’s candidate, it makes a big difference.”
“Because more people would try to kill me.”
Aloran sighed. “Yes. But also, if you were to accept the candidacy, the Academy could no longer offer you its protection. You could not enter the Maze again.”
“Oh.” Adon hugged himself. Honestly, he didn’t want to enter the Maze again—he’d only ever gone in once, and look where that had got him. If Dexelin hadn’t been there to carry him off, he probably would have been killed in spite of the Academy’s supposed protection. And that protection obviously was doing nothing to help Dexelin. “I don’t want to be a candidate, Aloran. But I don’t know if I can make Nekantor and Arbiter Lorman listen to me.”
Aloran didn’t respond to that.
Adon glanced up, and found him struggling with emotion—fear? Anger? What?
“You’re lucky, Adon,” Aloran said at last. “You’re Grobal. You get to choose.”
You know Nekantor! he wanted to retort. But of course Aloran did. He looked down at his left hand. “I’m sorry.”
“You were offered real safety. You refused it, as is your right, and so you got something less. A compromise. That compromise will disappear if you take the First Family’s candidacy. Whether you try to take it is irrelevant. That safety is still there for you. But you have to choose it.”
He meant their trip to the Academy. The Headmaster’s offer to sponsor him, if he wanted to Fall. Aloran obviously saw it as a way out.
A way out of the tiny box—into another box. Did Aloran even hear himself? Did he understand that he’d just admitted Imbati weren’t allowed to choose?
How did that help anything?
“Thank you for telling me,” Adon said.
Aloran’s face closed down instantly. He stood up, bowed, and left. Without him, the room became intolerable. Adon walked out into the drawing room. Mother was sitting on the couch talking with Tagaret; she looked up when she saw him.
“Adon, what’s wrong?”
His throat felt tight. “I just spoke to—well, Aloran is upset.”
Mother stood up. “What did you say to him?”
But he’d promised never to tell her. “I don’t know.”
Mother scowled, and her eyes flared. “I’ll go talk to him.” She strode away into her bedroom, and shut the door.
“That wasn’t very nice, Adon,” Tagaret said.
What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t muster outrage to respond. He stared at the toes of his shoes, and shook his head.
“Hey,” said Tagaret. “Want to see if we can talk to Della?”
“All right.”
Tagaret crossed to the other bedroom door, and Adon straggled up beside him. Tagaret knocked. Imbati Yoral opened it, but his expression changed instantly from expectation to deep fatigue.
“Master Tagaret,” he said. “Young Master Adon. I’m afraid my Mistress is indisposed at this time, and not receiving visitors.”
That was strange. “But I thought she was awake,” Adon said. “Melumalai Forder said she was awake.”
“She’s awake,” Yoral conceded. “However, she’s not receiving visitors.”
“Della,” Tagaret called. “Please, love, I need to talk to you.”
There was some small sound from the space behind Yoral, but no more than a grunt. Yoral stilled his face. He stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. “Master Tagaret, sir,” he said. “She does not consent to see you at this time.”
“But, Yoral. Why is she shutting me out? We’re—we were—I mean, we’re supposed to get through everything together . . .”
Yoral said nothing. Was he angry? Or guilty?
“I know how hard this is for her,” Tagaret pleaded. “You know how hard it is to have to go through this. I’m here to support her, no matter how hard it gets. I need to be there. Yoral, I thought we understood each other on this.”
“My duty is to my Mistress, sir,” said Yoral. “Her wishes are my own.”
Oh, no. Yoral had failed to follow Della’s wishes, and been chastised. Adon cleared his throat. “Yoral, I’m so—”
“You’re being unreasonable,” said Tagaret. “What if I don’t talk to her about her health, but just . . . talk to her? Can’t you just let me in?”
“I’m sorry, sir, no.”
“Why not?” Tagaret demanded.
“Sir, because I want her to trust me again.”
Tagaret didn’t say another word. He turned away and shoved through the double doors into the sitting room. Adon cast an apologetic look at Yoral, and went after him.
“Tagaret . . . ?”
Tagaret didn’t even turn around. He walked into his office and shut the door.
Standing in the middle of the sitting room, alone, Adon took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The latch of the front door clicked. The vestibule curtain was pushed aside. Adon recognized Dexelin a split second before Nekantor walked into the sitting room and said,
“Adon, we need to talk.”
His insides seized; for a second he wanted to throw up. “No. We don’t.” He backed up until he hit the drawing room door, and stopped.
But did he really have to stop? Why stay under Nekantor’s attention if he didn’t have to? He took an extra step and slipped sideways into the private drawing room.
No one was here. He laid both hands on the double doors, but was forced to back up when they started to open toward him.
Nekantor winced as he entered. “Do you think I like coming here?”
I hope not. He didn’t say it aloud, only shrugged. He glanced at Dexelin, who had followed Nekantor in; the servant looked utterly dejected.
“I’m here because I have to be,” Nekantor said. “Adon, I need your help. I need an Heir, and you’re the only one who can do it.”
Adon backed up farther, down the hall toward his room. “That’s not true.”
“Maybe not, but there’s no one else who could do it as well as you.”
There was the handle of his door. Adon grabbed it fast, retreated into his bedroom, shut the door and locked it.
This was the place that was supposed to be safe. He couldn’t go out the window to escape; there might be assassins out there.
A little tiny box.
There was a scraping sound, and the handle of the locked door began to turn.
Heile help me.
The door opened. Nekantor started to enter, but then he recoiled, backing across the hall. “You’ve turned my room into a disgraceful mess!”
“It’s not your room, Nekantor.”
Nekantor panted, staring down the hall toward the light of the window. His fingers flickered over his vest buttons. “Fine. Come out here and talk to me.”
“No.”
“I’m offering you a unique opportunity. You need to understand.”
“I don’t want to be Heir.”
“This is about power, Adon. The pattern is perfect: with me as Eminence, you as Heir, Speaker Fedron and Selemei in the cabinet, and Tagaret ready to step up, the First Family can command this nation for a lifetime.”
Adon steeled himself, and looked into his brother’s eyes. “I don’t want to.”
“You do, though,” Nekantor insisted. “You’re only saying that because you’re upset right now. I understand. Politics is a nasty business. But you could do so much, as Heir. You’d have the power of appointment. You could place anyone you like in any open position across Varin.”
The eye contact was too exhausting. Adon glanced aside and found Dexelin. The servant’s eyes were begging. Dexelin whispered, “You could command service.”
“I want Dexelin to be my bodyguard,” Adon blurted.
Nekantor seemed startled. “What?”
When the Eminence’s Cohort struck, no special protections had been sufficient. It had been him and Dexelin. Dexelin had saved him when they stood against death together. The one power that being Heir could give him was the ability to save Dexelin back.
“I want your Dexelin. Give him to me, right now.”
Nekantor stared at him for so long he could hardly breathe, but then, slowly, he said, “If I give him to you, you’ll willingly enter the Selection for the First Family?”
Adon cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Nekantor nodded. “Dexelin, you may go to Adon.”
Dexelin looked guilty. He stepped away from Nekantor and came closer. Adon tried to reassure him silently, I will protect you. To Nekantor, he only said,
“Thank you.”
“Oh, no, Adon,” the Eminence replied. “Thank you.”
I hate this so much.
Adon sat on the drawing room couch, staring at the contract on the glass-topped table. It was a very fancy piece of paper: the standard contract for a manservant, that he was supposed to sign. Serjer was here watching, and so was the Headmaster, and so was Dexelin.
Why do I hate this so much?
He swallowed hard, leaned forward, and signed it.
I did it. I saved him.
Serjer and the Headmaster moved the table slightly to one side. Dexelin sank down on his knees in front of Adon’s feet, and lowered his head. His braids slipped forward onto the floor.
“Master,” Dexelin said.
Oh, gods. He couldn’t stand it. He had to sit still and listen to this? He’d rather crawl right out of his skin.
“The Mark upon my face I dedicate to your noble name. Thus I kneel before you to offer my duty, my honor, my love, and my life to your service. Upon your loyal servant pray you bestow a touch, the seal of your hand upon this, the vow of my heart.”
Adon gulped. Tried to figure out what he’d just been asked to do. Touch. All right—
He held out his hand, palm up. Dexelin didn’t notice.
“Dexelin,” he said.
The Imbati looked up, blinked a moment in confusion, and finally put his hand on top of Adon’s.
“Serjer as Household witness.”
“Moruvia as Academy witness.”
“Thank you,” Adon said. “Now, can you please go?”
Both Serjer and the Headmaster bowed and excused themselves through the double doors.
“Please get up, Dexelin. Sit on a chair if you’d like.”
“Yes, Master.”
Adon squirmed. “Crown of Mai, please! Please don’t ever call me that.”
“Yes, sir.” Dexelin seemed uncertain, but he did get up and take a seat in the nearest stuffed chair.
Here they were, now. Sitting side by side, and every second that passed felt easier. Most importantly, Dexelin wasn’t working for Nekantor anymore, so he didn’t have to suffer.
Adon caught the servant’s eyes gratefully, and smiled.