Hot and cold prickled over my skin like a fever, and my wounded gut writhed. I swallowed and gritted my teeth.
"That's a lie."
He splayed open palms and shook his head. "No, sweet child. It's true. Your mother was a slave in Kalasiki, and I saved her. I paid for her freedom and brought her back to Rakim."
"Saved her," I repeated with a hoarse laugh. "You ordered the Trogolese mercenaries to kill her."
His eyes widened and mouth worked silently, but he recovered quickly. "That only came to pass because of extenuating circumstances. You must realize that Rakim tradition does not allow rulers to sire children outside of their marriage. I told her to take care of the problem, but she refused."
Pain stabbed my gut and flashed out over my body, and my sword sagged. I needed to kill the King now before I lost too much blood, but the story he weaved sank hooks into my chest, refusing to release me. I pressed my left hand over the still-bleeding stab wound and glared at him.
"Take care of the problem by killing me?"
"She refused, though," he said, smoothly, as though talking about some ridiculous old spat rather than the murder of his own daughter. "She said the child was too obedient and trusting to ever cause any problems."
A bitter swell tightened my throat. "She always told me the Goddess blesses those who obey without question."
He nodded. "She promised me you believed that."
I blinked and huffed a laugh through my nose. "That's a slave mantra."
"A very good one." He tapped his chin, eyes alight like one discussing a favorite hobby. "Incredibly effective."
Of course, manipulation was his favorite hobby. I wanted to believe telling me he was my father was just another part of that — just another game. Yet the real possibility he was telling the truth wrapped vines around my chest, constricting my breath.
Whether or not I was related to him, he deserved to die. But if what he said was true, did I deserve to live? A month of serving the Resistance hardly constituted proof of any real difference between us.
When you dig up a weed, you don't leave the root to grow.
My gut fired white-hot pain, wrenching a gasp from my lips. I doubled over, sword sagging. King Makapu rose from his seat and took one step toward me, eyes pinned to my wound and brows furrowed.
"Epsa, you're —"
"Stop." I straightened and lifted the sword toward the King's chest. "On your knees. Don't pretend you care about me."
He raised both hands, eyebrows raised in polite surprise. "I'm not pretending."
"On your knees," I repeated.
The King rolled both his head and eyes in a disbelieving gesture, but he dropped to a crouch and slowly lowered first one knee and then the other to the ground. "Fine. Let's resolve this. Take a deep breath, child, and tell me what you want from me."
"I want the truth." I hardly recognized my own voice, a harsh snarl. "If I really am your daughter, how could you order my death?"
"For four years, I trusted your mother's promise of discretion. Then one night, I heard you praying to the Goddess in your bedroom. You spoke so eloquently, like a miniature adult. And I knew you were no mindless pet. I knew you would cause problems one day.
"But then I visited your home after the attack to make sure the problem had been eliminated, and you were... so sweet. So obedient. I couldn't help myself from saving you."
"Saving me from your own attack."
The King flicked a dismissive wrist. "And it wasn't the last time I saved you. I knew you were the guard who helped Izra free the Lesser God worshippers, but I couldn't let go of my faith in you. So I let you off with a warning."
The light in his eyes never dimmed, gleaming with maniacal passion. Amazing to me now that I had ever mistaken that passion for love.
"A warning." Venom seeped through my voice. "You murdered my best friend."
His tongue flicked out over his lower lip, an unfamiliar gesture. Flagging confidence? "Epsa, he worshipped Lesser Gods. I would have accosted him earlier if not for your friendship."
"He was innocent." My voice choked under the weight of sorrow and rage. "He was the best man I've ever known."
"Epsa, please. Killing me will accomplish nothing. Makandi will carry on my legacy."
"Makandi hates you," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
A trembling smile quirked his lips. "Do you really understand so little? No, Makandi does not hate me. His petulant tantrums only demonstrate his profound craving for my approval. Makandi is weak, but he will carry on my legacy. And Makari... he will be King one day."
Thoughts swirled in a disorienting flurry, succumbing to the weight of confusion and blood loss. My vision blurred and shoulders sagged. I forced myself to remember the stakes. To remember Pim, Honey, Queen Romalda, and the Resistance members who had given me their trust. Shaking myself, I raised the sword before me once more.
"I don't know what the future will hold," I said, "But I know it won't hold you."
Past closed doors, metal clattered down a stairwell, and footsteps crescendoed. Makapu's eyes darted past me to the cracked door and then fixed on me. For the first time, something less calculated flickered across his eyes. Real fear.
"Epsa, please. I am your father and your king."
I shook my head. "You are no longer my king, and you have never been my father."
"Then as an old man on his knees." His voice cracked, desperation ripping apart his smooth bass. "I have done everything you asked."
Some cruel semblance of a smile twitched across my face. Honey had done everything the King asked for years. And so had I. What did we receive in return? Only a promise of some better future after death — some blessing from a Goddess who demanded everything and gave nothing.
"Then I'm sure the Goddess will bless you for your obedience," I said.
And I plunged the sword through his neck.
He clutched his neck, eyes expanding to perfect circles and mouth flapping like a fish out of water. Blood spilled over his fitted gold vest and splattered the ground, a morbid echo of the rain outside. As thunder boomed, he flopped forward. Curly hair brushed the floor a foot from my feet.
For a minute, I only stared at the motionless body in front of me and the blood dripping from my sword. I had expected to feel something. Glee, relief, regret... something. But only a cold numbness pushed through me, depleting my remaining energy.
The sword slipped from my grasp and thumped the ground beside my feet, and I stumbled toward the door.
The study swayed and blurred with each step. For a disorienting second, I felt certain the ceiling had ripped off, and the downpour now flooded the palace. The walls melted to the floor in a glimmering mirage.
I blinked, and dry walls stacked upon solid floor once more.
Japal's sprawled body crunched beneath me, and a cooling puddle of blood splashed my trousers. The sharp corner of Makapu's desk dug into my hip. The door frame splintered my clawed fingers and knocked my shoulder.
As the hallways stretched before me, guards breached the top of the stairs. They streamed past me, a blur of copper. If any of them stopped to look at me, I didn't notice. I felt my hand trail down the bannister of the spiral staircase, heard the slick shuffle of my feet, watched the world spin.
Nausea flooded my gut, and cold sweat poured down my back.
I intended to march straight back toward the secret entrance, but after jostling past shoulders and slipping through a few door frames, I found myself in the courtyard.
The rain had calmed to a pitter-patter. Blue infused the gray sky with just enough light to illuminate the gold statue of Goddess Rashika. Water overflowed her cupped hands and spilled off conical breasts into the fountain.
At the Goddess's feet, a curly-haired head bobbed into view.
Makari?
I blinked, waiting for the illusion to dissipate. But when I opened my eyes, he remained. His chipper, childish voice rang through the patter of rain, repeating the first two phrases of a nursery song as he dragged some toy through the water. So unaware of the eyes on him and the battle that raged on just behind the door.
So vulnerable.
He was just a tiny, neglected child... but could he one day be as terrible as Makapu? And would his heirs continue the barbaric legacy for generations to come? Surely those questions mattered more than his miserable little life.
My eyes found the sharp ridge of the fountain, and the warning I had once given Makari echoed through my mind.
You could slip and hit your head.
My fingers twitched, and my heart battered my ribcage. I saw his blood on my hands, mingling with the King's and with my own. I saw the fountain run pink.
The toy surfaced from the fountain to perch on the sharp ridge of the fountain, a slumped animal discharging wet sawdust. The Three-Legged Lion. An unwelcome memory cut through my cold calculations — chubby cheeks dimpling around pearly white teeth. The Three-Legged Lion wanted to go swimming.
Had I really just contemplated the cold-blooded murder of a three-year-old child? Maybe there was something inherently wrong with him — maybe evil already flowed through his veins. Or maybe he was just an unfortunate prince. Whatever he was, his blood would stain my hands forever.
Never stop being human.
Makari's head tipped toward me, and my feet made the decision for me. Before our eyes could meet, I slipped back through the door into the palace.
Though I could no longer feel my legs moving, my surroundings changed. Statues and paintings weaved in and out of focus in my peripheral vision. Marble floor transformed into wood panels and then lush rug. The unassuming shelf invited me, the hidden doorway sucked me through, and rickety stairs dumped me into the cellar.
At the base of the stairs, I stopped to glance at my wounded side. Was that really my flesh torn open and leaking blood? Like the torn seam in the Three-Legged Lion toy. Laughter spilled from my lips at the thought.
I continued laughing as I staggered toward the ladder, and I laughed even harder when my arms failed to pull me up. My eyes drifted to the cellar floor. It had never looked so comfortable. Perhaps I would just lie down for a minute. Perhaps I would never get up.
Izra.
The name pricked the corners of my subconscious, injecting a shot of adrenaline. Even if she could not love me, she wanted me at her side. Even if I did not deserve her, I could make her happy. And if I lay down right now, I would never see her again.
My arms trembled and breaths rasped as I dragged myself up the ladder. I shoved the trapdoor open and hauled myself over the edge. Around me, rain sprinkled over open land.
The horse was gone.
Sucking in a breath, I pushed the ground away from me and swung up to my feet. I couldn't walk all the way back to the plaza, not in this condition, but maybe I could make it to the Mount of Truth. And maybe, just maybe, Izra would find me there.
The treeline approached and then engulfed me. Branches clawed at my face, and roots grasped my feet. One wrenched my leg out from under me, and my hands and knees smacked mud. Grappling for purchase, I lugged myself forward.
So heavy. Too heavy.
I stopped to breathe, but the world kept moving, overlaid images bouncing around in a haze. My eyes slid shut, my body sagged, and cold, wet mud smeared my cheek.
A voice.
"Epsa? Epsa!"
Was it really her? Could she really be here? I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids refused to obey.
Footsteps approached, slow and then fast. Slender fingers fluttered over my hand and pressed against my wrist. Then her hands moved to my gut, pushing down on the throbbing wound.
"Fuck, you're losing blood fast. Epsa, can you hear me?" Her voice grew shaky, muffled. "Give me a nod, sweetheart. G-g-give me something."
I willed my lips to reassure her, my hand to touch hers, but my body would not respond. Sleep wrestled me away, tugging me into its alluring abyss.
"No, no, no. Don't you d-dare d-d-die on me. Not wh-when I f-finally know..."
Her voice distorted and broke into a whisper, more surrender than declaration. Not climbing a mountain, but lying down in front of a stampede.
"I love you, Epsa."