CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Control

There were two Arissen on the main door, and another on the Maze door, all three of them holding weapons. Pointing them at the members of the cabinet, who sat in their chairs, terrified and silent. At his Dexelin. And at him.

Adon tried to keep breathing. This shouldn’t have been possible. It shouldn’t be—it wasn’t possible—like the distortion in the air when he’d been barraged with weapons fire beside the shinca, except now the distortion was in reality itself. This was supposed to be the Round of Eight. Other candidates were supposed to come. There was supposed to be voting. This was supposed to be a competition.

He was supposed to be allowed to lose.

“Lady Selemei,” Adon whispered. The sound of his own voice frightened him, but the three guards didn’t seem to react. “What are we going to do?”

“We know what he wants,” Lady Selemei said quietly. “The only question is whether we have any choice about giving it to him. Caredes, Boros, Amyel . . . what do you think?”

Caredes of the Eighth Family shook his head. Boros of the Second Family, who’d had such a booming voice at the Accession Ball, was silent. Amyel, who had a kind face, only said, “I don’t know.”

A soft grunt came from the youngest of the men at the table. He hissed, “He started all this by killing my cousin Herin at dinner. We can’t just—”

One of the guards trained a weapon on him, and he stopped talking.

Adon pressed his back into the stone. If only he could move through it like a wysp—just disappear . . .

“Innis,” said Selemei. “Fedron and I don’t condone this. You suspected the truth before anyone else. What do you think we should do?”

Innis of the Fifth Family rubbed his hand across his receding forehead. “Honestly? Stay alive,” he said. “That’s what we have to do now. Two months ago, when I tried—that was the time to stop him.”

The young cabinet member spoke again, indignantly. “But that means this isn’t an Heir Selection.”

“It’s not,” Innis agreed. “And we shouldn’t pretend it is. We shouldn’t go through the motions of final rounds as if this were being conducted fairly.”

Heile’s mercy. Adon could tell what that meant, and it made him sick. “Don’t,” Adon said. “Don’t choose me. Please.”

Innis looked at him. “You’ve shown us you’re brave, young Adon. I’m sorry, but that’s what you’ll need to be.”

“Members,” said Speaker Fedron. His voice sounded old and tired. “I think Innis is right. There’s only one way to end this process here and now, and make sure nobody else dies. Cast your votes.”

Adon looked across the group as their hands moved to the screens set in the table. He looked for Dexelin. Dexelin’s face was as expressionless as stone.

No one called the vote, but they didn’t have to.

They sat in silence for a long time. At last the door to the hallway opened.

Nekantor was back. Sirin had not intervened, to strike him with a stalactite at the last minute. Mother Elinda had not stolen his soul from his body. Mai the Right was silent, and Heile had offered no mercy.

Nekantor didn’t seem well, though. He was panting, and his face twitched. He held one hand in a fist, while with the other he frantically twisted the ring on his little finger.

“C-control the pattern,” he said. “The cabinet must vote.”

“They already did,” said Adon.

Nekantor lunged forward between the two nearest cabinet members, who cowered away from him. He looked into their screens.

“The cabinet has voted unanimously,” said Speaker Fedron, in that old, tired voice. “Adon will be the Heir.”

“Good,” Nekantor said. “Good. Adon wins, at the end of the game.”

And what would happen next? Would he let them go? Or if anyone asked to leave, would the guards just start shooting?

Process and rules.

“Dexelin,” Adon whispered. “Adjourn the meeting.”

Dexelin straightened, holding one hand behind his back, and spoke clearly. “This meeting is hereby adjourned.”

For an instant, there was only silence, no one daring to move. Then Nekantor wheeled on Adon, and grabbed him by the arm.

“Ouch!” he yelped. “Nekantor!”

“Guards, with me,” Nekantor ordered, and dragged him out into the hall. The guards followed—one, two . . . three. Oh, thank Heile. Adon ran to keep up, while his brother’s thumb and fingers dug into his arm. Dexelin—where was Dexelin?

“Dexelin,” he called.

“Sir.” Behind them, but not far behind.

“Make my brother let go of my arm.”

Luckily, Nekantor released him with a snort before Dexelin could do anything that might put him in danger. “Fine,” he said. “We’re going to your suite, now. Keep up.”

His suite? The Heir’s suite was at the end of the hall, on the other side of the rotunda where the light poured in from above. Adon followed Nekantor there, rubbing the bruises on his arm.

The door to the Heir’s suite was huge. The statues that held it up were larger than men. He didn’t belong here. Nekantor pressed his hand to the lock pad, and the huge door opened—proof, if he needed any, that none of this was right.

The Heir’s suite had its own vestibule. On the other side of the curtain, it had an enormous sitting room as large as both the sitting room and drawing room at home, put together. There were curtained bay windows on the far side.

He should have been at home with Tagaret, and Della, and Mother, and Aloran. He drew a shuddering breath.

“You can go, now, Nekantor. You got what you wanted.”

“Not entirely,” said Nekantor, who had come in behind him. “Business. Complete the pattern.”

Adon shook his head, turning around. “What does that mean?”

“You’re the Heir, that’s what it means!” Nekantor snapped. “You have the power of appointment, and I expect you to use it to the First Family’s advantage. The first thing we need is a new Executor to the Pelismara Division.”

Was Nekantor saying what he thought he was saying? “What? Did something happen to Pyaras?”

Nekantor whirled around, grabbed the vestibule curtain, and tore it down. He snarled between clenched teeth. “Dexelin, get some paper.”

“Don’t,” Adon said, taking three steps backward. “He’s not your servant anymore, Nekantor. He’s mine.”

Nekantor opened the suite door and barked, “Guard!”

One of the men in orange from outside entered immediately.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Adon, though his insides felt like water. “You won’t kill me.”

Nekantor grimaced, showing his teeth. “Arissen, point your weapon at that Imbati.”

“No!” Adon shrieked.

The guard didn’t shoot. Dexelin stood frozen, his tattoo stark against his bloodless face.

“Are you proud of yourself, Adon?” Nekantor demanded. “Do you feel like you’ve accomplished something? Great—now that’s over with, you can get to work, and do as I say.”

Adon’s heart beat so hard it hurt all the way into his throat. “Dexelin,” he whispered. “Get some paper.”

Dexelin inclined his head. Silently, he slipped through a door on the left side of the room, which appeared to lead to an office.

“That’s right. That’s how we keep this working,” Nekantor said. “I know what you care about. I know who. And you’re going to help me complete the pattern properly. Cleanly. Starting with Executor to the Pelismara Division. Write in Corrim, Lady Selemei’s son.”

Something had happened to Pyaras. Had Nekantor done something to Pyaras? If he had, then Tagaret might be in danger, too, or even Mother . . .

Adon didn’t look at Nekantor. He watched the door where Dexelin had disappeared. A minute later, Dexelin appeared holding paper and a pen.

Adon caught his eyes, pleading. “So, we’ll have to tell the family, I guess?” he asked. “After we do this?” Dexelin, please understand me . . .

“One thing at a time,” said Nekantor.

“Write the order, please, Dexelin,” Adon said. Don’t, don’t . . .

Dexelin gave him a look that was strangely reassuring. He went to the low marble table between the couches, and started to write on one of the sheets of paper. The Arissen was no longer aiming at him, but Adon had seen how little time it took to pull a weapon.

Dexelin looked up at Adon. “Ready, sir.”

I’m sorry, I should have done better. Please, Dexelin, warn my family . . . He couldn’t say it aloud without endangering him. He felt hot around the eyes.

“I’ll check it,” said Nekantor. He snatched the paper that Dexelin offered him, and snorted. “All right.”

“You may deliver it,” said Adon. Don’t deliver it.

Dexelin bowed. He came close to Adon’s shoulder and pressed a paper into his hand, then walked over to the vestibule curtain and out the door.

“Excellent,” said Nekantor. He walked toward the windows, calmer now, as though these were his own rooms. Of course, they had been. He opened one of the curtains and looked out at the gardens.

Adon looked down at the paper in his hand.

To Master Adon

I know it’s selfish of me to leave you like this. It’s not your fault . . .

Oh, mercy, no!

Adon bolted past the guard and out the door, down the bright stairway of the rotunda, struggling to run but not to trip. Why couldn’t he run faster?

His lungs strained as if to burst as he flung himself through the halls. No one was here to protect him, but every room contained menacing guards in orange uniforms.

“Dex—!” He could run, or shout, but not both. Dexelin was nowhere in sight.

By the time he reached home he was half-choking. He pressed the lock-pad and stumbled in. Imbati Serjer caught him.

“Young Master Adon, we received your warning.”

“Dexelin,” Adon gasped, tears prickling in his eyes. “Where?”

Serjer blinked. “He went to his room.”

“No, no—he’s going to—”

Serjer pushed him onto his feet and vanished instantly into the Maze.

Adon ran through the sitting room without looking at it. He found Mother and Aloran, and Tagaret and Della in the drawing room.

He couldn’t even speak. He ran past them into his own room, and then to the Maze curtain on the wall. He flung the curtain aside and opened the door, but the threshold stopped him dead.

I’m not allowed in there anymore.

He stood, gasping, tears streaking his cheeks.

Serjer walked up out of the dark. Too slowly.

Adon moaned. “No . . .”

“Young Master,” Serjer said, clearly struggling to speak, “there was nothing I could do. He had this huge knife . . .”

The knife. He could see it in his mind. He could see Dexelin washing it in that terrible kitchen, drying it, hiding it under his coat. He refused to imagine the rest.

All the energy that had carried him here dried up. He forced his feet to move, one step, another step, out into the drawing room.

Everyone stared at him.

He managed a whisper. “Nekantor held the cabinet hostage until they voted me Heir. And Dexelin is dead.”

“Oh, Adon,” Mother said. “Oh, love . . .”

“You all have to leave, now. As fast as you can. Nekantor wants to control me, and all the decisions I make, and that means he’s going to hurt you.”

They didn’t move.

“W-what are y-you waiting for? Y-you have to g-go . . .”

“I’ll be back soon,” said Della suddenly. She picked up her skirts and ran out through the double doors, calling, “Yoral, I need you!”

“My sweet love,” said Mother. “I’m so sorry.” She came to him, and put her arms around him. Tagaret came too, holding him on his other side.

This would be the last time. He would never dare be so close to anyone again.

Nekantor must never control him.

And he must never, never rest until he could bring Nekantor to justice.