These Divided Shores, page 27
Elazar prayed more loudly, begging the Pious God to forgive Argrid. Argrid had desecrated Grace Loray. They had murdered hundreds of people and refused to relent until every last Argridian resource had been ripped away.
“Forgive us for failing you, Our Righteous God,” Elazar had bellowed instead. “Forgive us for losing Grace Loray. Forgive us for not fighting hard enough.”
People staggered closer to Elazar’s parade. Ben remembered the stark, sudden shift on their faces, a widening of those sunken eyes, a parting of those chapped lips.
This was the reason for their suffering. They had failed the Pious God, and he had punished them. They deserved this anguish—it made sense.
If they did better, if they fixed their failures, the Pious God would bless them.
The people lifted their hands. They wept.
“Forgive us for our failure,” Elazar shouted. “Forgive us.”
Ben realized, as he pushed to his feet in the Port Mesi-Teab sanctuary, that he had never been in a war. The fight to escape the prison had been a mad scramble for freedom with a clearly defined goal: Get out. Leave this place. And Deza after the revolution might have felt like being in a war zone, but the causes had been internal, the suffering self-inflicted.
But here. Standing on this dirt road in the sanctuary, a boot-print collage trailing in every direction, blood and ash and gunpowder painting sunbursts on the walls, people tending wounded with a distant look in their eyes, like they hadn’t woken up from a dream—it all said invasion. It all said an enemy was here. It all said we did not choose this.
Ben took a step away from Vex and Lu, who still sat on the ground, holding each other. In a square ahead, Nayeli and a dozen other Tuncians wept, occasionally screaming to the sky.
Other people dragged blankets over bodies and knelt next to them, staring into the abyss of exhaustion and blankness. Kari talked with a few raiders, likely getting the details of what had happened, how Argrid had gotten in, who had betrayed the sanctuary.
A handful of people moved through the wreckage, sweeping shattered glass into piles, straightening overturned tables. Jakes was one of them, helping a man carry a body to the side of the road. The fact that he was still here, and had been knocked unconscious by defensors, had seemed to smooth any worry about Jakes’s loyalties. A foolish mistake, but Ben was too exhausted to care, just like these people, who worked and straightened and cleaned.
Ben moved toward a nearby pile of rubble—it must have once been crates of produce. Now the piles of broken wood and smashed fruit spread across the road.
Ben bent, retrieving pieces of wood. The gnarled edges snagged his hands.
“Here, let me.” Gunnar reached for the debris.
Ben recoiled.
“Benat,” Gunnar said, low and tinged with hurt.
A correction waited on Ben’s tongue. Prince Benat. It had always been his easiest buffer when Jakes angered him. I am your prince. I am royalty. How dare you take liberties.
But Gunnar wasn’t his subject. The two of them were in this fight against Elazar together, an equal trade of services that Ben would repay by helping Gunnar bring peace to the Mechtlands later.
Ben had no shield against Gunnar. Silence was the only thing keeping a cap on the torrent of agony in his chest, a storm that he wasn’t sure he had the strength to weather.
These people. This sanctuary.
He could have saved it. He could have stopped this. If he had just taken the vial of permanent magic, still in his pocket; if Gunnar had broken him out; if Jakes hadn’t realized that Ben would get killed if he left that cell.
Could Ben truly have gotten Tomás Andreu to leave the sanctuary in peace before defensors killed him? No. But right now, Ben hated that both Gunnar and Jakes had been rational in a moment of chaos, while he himself had been so irrational.
Ben kicked the remaining rubble of the crates aside, his nose burning with the stench of smoke and death.
“I’m sorry,” Gunnar whispered. Ben felt those blue eyes crest over him once, twice.
The dull thud of wood drew his attention down the road. There, a man righted a barrel and leaped onto it, his cheeks tearstained, his clothes darkened with blood likely not his own.
The man pointed at the sanctuary. No one in particular; either he didn’t know Ben, Kari, and the raider Heads were nearby, or he didn’t care.
“Elazar’s defensors fled in retreat!” the man cried. Ben winced at the grief in his voice. “He tried to cleanse this place, to save us. Who would have thought a day would come when Argrid was trying to save us? But it has come, and we did nothing to help ourselves! We are still here, trapped under foul raider cruelty, forced to mourn loved ones who are dead by their hand! If we want peace, we have to take it. We cannot expect Argrid to save us alone.”
Ben braced himself. Around him, other refugees gathered, stumbling away from the corpses of loved ones caught in the battle, the destruction of this place they had called home, or at least safe. They gathered at the feet of the man, staring up at him through teary eyes.
“Raiders did this!” the man screamed, raw and cleaving. “The raiders are criminals and murders, heathens of the worst sort. Elazar was right. He was—”
A knot of rage formed in Ben’s stomach. No. Not again. It was happening here, too, this manic devotion Elazar inspired in people. Argrid had been under his influence for decades, and seeing it there still broke Ben’s heart—but on Grace Loray? The one country in this world that had every cause to loathe Elazar? They were rallying for him now?
Ben’s hands closed into fists. His rage welled higher, pressing against his throat. “No,” he said through clenched teeth, and he took a step forward.
Gunnar was there, an arm across his chest. Ben redirected his rage. If Gunnar told him not to confront this man—if he held Ben back, again—
But Gunnar’s face softened. “He was right,” he said. “Elazar, in the village when he paraded us. Everything he said, he was right then, too. If I was as these people, on the brink of another war in my country, searching for blame and hope—”
“You believe my father?” Grayness wavered at the edges of Ben’s vision.
Gunnar shook his head. “No. But I see how they do. Elazar speaks to their fears.”
A question came in the pause. And what have I spoken to?
Gunnar’s arm was still across Ben’s chest, not restraining now—more like holding Ben upright.
A movement to Ben’s right made his head snap around. Nate stomped up the road, face red and snarling, a gun already in one hand.
Ben lurched around Gunnar. “And what of the people Elazar burned?”
His words in Grace Lorayan brought silence over the gathering crowd. Even Nate stopped, his glare transferring from the man to Ben.
One panicked breath, and Ben kept his eyes on the man as though no one else was here.
When he opened his mouth again, he wasn’t sure what he would say. Half of him still wanted to scream at this man—he had to be one of the betrayers who had led Argrid here. A wave of accusation flooded Ben’s throat. You’re wrong! How can you not see? Everything you say is disgusting!
But this man would shout the same right back, wouldn’t he? You’re wrong, Prince Benat! How can you not see?
This man, all these refugees, were so certain of their rightness that some of them had welcomed an army into this sanctuary. An army that had, less than a decade ago, burned people on this island.
Gunnar was right. Elazar had spoken to these people’s fears and woven a tapestry of promises that gave them everything they wanted. But all Ben had done was blame them, and cower from them, and wait for them to see the error in their choices because of course they would see it, the wrongness was obvious.
It wasn’t obvious, not to them. These people had treated Ben as an enemy from the moment he stepped into this sanctuary—and Ben had treated them as enemies for just as long.
“What of the people Elazar burned?” Ben repeated. He didn’t move closer, didn’t recoil, wasn’t sure he was still connected to his body at all. “What about the people still missing? What about the magic Elazar has forbidden, the livelihoods he’s taken from Grace Loray?”
“All necessary,” the man snapped back. Some of the grief was gone from his tone, following Ben’s own: an honest search for answers. “Evil has made this island sick. Its roots are deep—”
“Evil,” Ben echoed. “What is evil?”
“Raiders!” The man punched a fist into the air. “We know now—raiders! They brought these calamities upon us! They—”
“There are no raiders in Argrid,” Ben cut in. “And my country has struggled with poverty and disease for years. Who do we have to blame?”
The man’s mouth fell open.
Somewhere in the crowd, another voice spoke: “It was punishment, wasn’t it? Elazar said the Pious God punished Argrid for not getting rid of raiders during the war!”
Renewed by this, the man punched the air again, but Ben didn’t let him speak.
“If you purge this island of raiders,” Ben started, “the Pious God will reward you?”
A chorus of agreement, as though Ben had stated some plan.
“Raiders bring poverty, disease, and danger to Grace Loray because they are evil.” Ben had to shout to calm the intensity. It settled, but he held his voice high over the crowd. “The Pious God is purity and joy, the opposite of evil. Yet he punished Argrid with poverty and disease. You believe he will bless you for purging the raiders. If the Pious God is pure, why does he produce the same results as evil? How do you know he will deign to bless you—because Elazar promises you that he knows the Pious God’s will? If Elazar knows the Pious God’s will, why did he fail so spectacularly during the revolution?”
Silence. Nate, still among the people, wasn’t watching Ben anymore—he was looking at the crowd. Farther back, Kari, Rosalia, Lu, and Vex, even Jakes all watched with various mixes of confusion and wonder, hesitation and fear.
Beyond the crowd’s lingering—permanent—states of grief and anger, a change came. A brightness behind their eyes spoke of realization, however small, however fragile. Something in what Ben said had startled them into awareness.
A few turned to their neighbors, whispering cautiously.
Ben felt himself move through the crowd. People parted for him, and in a breath, he was at the base of the man’s barrel platform, looking up at this stranger.
And then Ben was kneeling.
“I apologize for Argrid,” he said. He projected his voice beyond this man, for the whole of the crowd. For Grace Loray. For Argrid. “In my time on this island, I have seen how deeply Grace Loray believes. In the Pious God, yes; but also in the Tuncians’ gods, Kek, Keket, Eshepri, and Fapsanti; the Visjorn spirit of the Mechts; the Grozdans’ belief in glory. One thing I can thank my father for is teaching me the importance of belief, and you, Grace Loray, have such beautiful conviction. But Elazar manipulated you. I am sorry we made you so afraid.”
The man on the barrel gasped, tears on his cheeks.
He stepped off the barrel, and Ben lost him in the press of people.
A hand scooped under his arm. Ben rose unsteadily to his feet and turned to Lu, her eyes glazed. She gave him a timid smile.
At her side, Vex eyed the dirt. Lu squeezed Ben’s arm.
“Thank you,” she said, the gratitude weighted by years of pain.
Ben shrugged. Around them, the crowd was slowly breaking apart, many people talking to each other, most looking at Ben with strange wonder.
“I didn’t think it would help,” Lu whispered, putting words to the crowd’s confusion, “hearing an apology. Hearing someone admit what Argrid did. But—thank you.”
Ben’s eyes flicked to the back of the crowd. Gunnar, watching him, shoulder resting on a building. “I was just honest,” Ben said. He looked back at Lu. “Argrid hurt this island, and my father is capitalizing on it. I’m tired of arguing about blame or division—Argrid did terrible things. I will take responsibility for them. We will get better.”
Lu withdrew her hand. She looked to the sky, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
“I’m tired of division, too,” Vex said. “This doesn’t work. You”—he waved at Lu—“making permanent magic by yourself. And you”—he waved at Ben—“trying to bear this whole war yourself. I really don’t care what you two want to do next. I’ll support you. Both of you, goddamn it. I’m done letting Elazar drive me away from the people I love.”
Vex looked directly at Ben as he said that.
Ben had been newly thirteen, Paxben twelve for a few more weeks, the two of them lounging in the preparation room off the Grace Neus Cathedral’s altar. Well, Paxben was lounging, his long limbs sprawled on a velvet couch; Ben recited his lines moments before he would swear his oath to the Inquisitors, to learn the ways of judging crimes by Church doctrine.
“I just realized something,” Paxben had said, tipping his head over the arm of the couch to look at Ben upside down. “One day I’ll have to swear an oath to you, won’t I?”
Was there tension in Paxben’s voice? Ben had stopped pacing and shrugged. “If you want to serve me when I’m king.” He paused. “You will want to serve me, won’t you?”
There had been talk of unrest lately. Traitors in Elazar’s own household.
Paxben had smiled and rolled off the couch. He arranged himself on his knees before Ben and looked up, his face smooth and serious.
“I swear fealty to you, King Benat Gallego. Whenever that happens. I’m yours.”
Ben closed the space between him and Vex now, clamping one arm around his back. Tears washed through him from a hundred sources, grief and worry and pain and relief.
A light hand fell on Ben’s arm. Lu. She touched Vex too, and he huffed.
“Adeluna Andreu,” Vex said, and opened his free side to her. She slid in, no hesitation in how she welcomed this awkward tangle of arms and shoulders and tears. Ben shared a look of amazement with Vex over her head, but Vex just smiled and bowed his face into Lu’s hair.
Nothing had truly changed. The sanctuary was still in ruins. The raiders and their Heads were still volatile and disjointed. But somehow, standing there, holding his cousin and this girl who had come to matter so much to him, Ben felt as though things had shifted in their favor.
Or maybe he just felt himself relax for the first time in years.
“Touching,” snapped a voice to Ben’s left. He stiffened, feeling Vex and Lu do the same, and was the first to turn to face Rosalia in the middle of the now-empty road.
The stains of red on her face were either from tears or fury. Likely both. She scowled at Ben, light catching the tears in her eyes.
“Apologize all you want,” she spat. “But I’m done. My syndicate, too. We’re leaving.”
24
VEX HAD FELT a lot of things about Rosalia in the time he’d known her—but at this moment, he could honestly say he only hated her.
Ben pulled away from this weird cluster they were standing in, but Vex didn’t. Which left him holding on to Lu, who hesitated one second more, and Vex savored every moment of her body being anywhere near his. But, too soon, she turned to face Rosalia, and Vex wobbled in the absence of both of them.
For the first time since—god, since he’d jumped off the Astuto without Lu—Vex felt not so damn alone.
A tremor walked up his left leg, digging into his hip with such determination that he leaned over, fighting not to wince at the pain.
He’d have to tell Lu he wasn’t cured yet. He’d have to ask her to make more counter tonics for him.
Guilt shot through him, just as strong as the tremor, and he almost pushed aside any desire to bother her with trivial matters like saving his life. But he heard Edda in his head. Saw that look in her eyes when things had gotten too emotional.
All she’d wanted was redemption. Like Vex, like Nayeli—only her redemption was Vex, in the same way he’d needed his redemption to be making her proud of him.
Edda’d died right in front of him.
Vex sniffed, scrubbing his fist against his cheek before he shifted to glare all this hatred at Rosalia. And Nate, now, stomping up beside her with his injured husband leaning on him.
Great. All three people Vex could unabashedly hate.
“What are you talking about, Head Rustici?” Kari stepped into the group, putting her body between Ben, Lu, and Vex on one side, and the raider Heads on the other.
Rosalia ground her jaw. “Exactly what I said. The Grozdan syndicate is leaving. You can keep fighting this war on your own—we’re done.”
“You don’t get to ignore this,” Nayeli countered. Where’d she come from? But she stepped up beside Vex, hands on her hips, tears streaking trails down her cheeks. He teetered.
She’d lost Edda, too. And Fatemah. And Cansu was still gone.
God, how was Nayeli still standing?
“And who’re you to be talking?” Pierce snapped, adjusting his weight on Nate.
Nayeli rounded on him. “The Tuncian Head is still missing. The acting Head is dead. I’ve taken her place, until Cansu returns.”
She spoke without hesitation or regret or pain. She was the Tuncian Head now.
Pierce scoffed and ran his free hand down his face. “I don’t much care, honestly. Shoot me, but I agree with Rosalia. We’ve lost too damn much. Only a dozen of the raiders we left here are still—” He swallowed hard. When he started again, he spoke to the dirt. “The Emerdian syndicate is going back to Port Camden, and we’re gonna figure out how to retake our city ourselves—like we should’ve done to begin with. This was all a waste, thinking we could unify, thinking we’d have strong enough weapons. She”—he pointed across the group at Lu. Vex straightened by instinct, angling closer to her—“already changed her mind. Damn pride getting in the way. If she doesn’t make more permanent magic, we don’t have a hope or prayer to any god of winning this war.”
Kari looked at Lu with the same shock Vex knew was on his own face.
Lu had changed her mind about making permanent magic? But she’d still taken a vial of it, and Rosalia and Nate had, too, from what Vex’d heard. This was a start, though.
