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“Like a Blue.”
I put the chain around my neck and I look down at the holodrop playing in the box. I have to tell her now. How does one say something like this?
I know you have always felt apprehensive about your own race. One part yearns to be one of them, so it idolizes their virtues and mystery. Another part fears their rejection, and so demonizes their savagery. With that said, old girl, it has recently come to my attention that your seed donor is the most famous person of your race who has ever lived. Congratulations, you are the daughter of a god. If his people accept you—which is a dubious proposition—and if they don’t think you’re an abomination that must be cleansed, you get to deal with Volsung Fá. A man who eats hearts for supper. Enjoy your new life.
So I say nothing. Because the world outside doesn’t need another sacrifice. Not this angel. Not my Volga. I put my hand on hers. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
* * *
—
The bridge that connects the landing pad to the mountain tower is lined with trees. Nervous, Volga waits behind as I take a step onto the bridge. I motion her to join me.
Trigg’s monument is made of marble, like so many of the rest. They captured a fair likeness of him, yet somehow made him look more noble, which means more Gold. Guess that’s the way of statues. Sell the myth, forget the man.
Trigg’s jaw is set in determination. His eyes fierce. The anachronistic shield he holds over a fallen Darrow cracked and chewed by bullets. Candles from visitors flicker in the wind. Fresh flowers and baubles are stacked about his feet. Most are from Reds by the look of the flowers and offerings, but the rest are seashells and totems from his home in South Pacifica. Some made the pilgrimage to see the resting place of the Pacific’s most famous martyr. I wonder if Holiday is responsible for some of those shells. But no one is here now.
“They say many people come here,” Volga murmurs.
“Well, they’re idiots. He didn’t have a shield. And he died down there.”
I forget the monument and look down into the shadows. From the lights of passing ships, I can just make out the ledge on which his head split open. It’s a cold, empty place, not like the monument where the orange light of the candles bathe Trigg in warmth. But he isn’t in either place. His body was never recovered. He is dust.
“Better he lives up here,” Volga says, and I see the respect in her eyes for the myth of my husband. It does so much more for me than words ever could. I don’t really understand why I wanted her to come. Maybe it’s because I buried him so deep, and felt that if I could keep her from knowing too much about him, she would never matter as much as he did. But she does. Oh, she does.
And maybe Trigg deserves to be this myth. If not for himself, for others, like Volga, or young sons of South Pacifica who yearn to be brave like he was. Could that be what the world needs? Not dirty truths, not romantic paragons, but stubborn bastards who refuse to move?
Like Holiday? Like the great Red prick? Like Sefi?
Little cracks already web the feet of the statue. My eyes don’t linger there. I’m tired of looking for the cracks in everything. Tired of running. Here with Volga, I should feel complete. But looking up at Trigg, and remembering the sense of purpose that gripped Olympia only two weeks ago, I know I am in the wrong city.
Maybe the world needs another stubborn bastard.
“I have to go back,” I say to her. “I have to tell Sefi that it’s Xenophon. I can’t let her get undone by that little bastard. It isn’t right.”
She stares at the statue. “You stole from them. Iceborn do not forgive. They will murder you.”
“Naw. Sefi’s…different.”
“Then I will go with you.” It takes real courage for her to offer that.
“Sorry, old girl. That ain’t happening. They know me. They don’t know you. I won’t be gone long. Hell, I might even be back for breakfast.”
“Ephraim, you do not owe them anything. We don’t owe any of these people anything.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“I just found you again,” she protests, but the fight has left her. Tears well up in her eyes. I could have left in the night, but she would have followed, and she doesn’t deserve that from me. “You need me.”
“You’re right about that,” I say. “Damn right.” I stroke her hair. “You know your people have a word, something deeper than family: aeta.”
“Tribe,” she says, as if the word was sacred to her, looking away in embarrassment. I tilt her chin back so she looks at me.
“You’re my tribe, Snowball. I’ll be back for breakfast. That’s a promise.”
She smiles hopefully, then bursts into tears. I wrap her in an embrace, and I know I’d do anything to keep her safe, and do anything to be with her. But as Freihild said by that fire, some things are more important.
The servants bring me to Pax as he pores over battlemaps in Victra’s library. I stand behind a bookcase and remove the necklace to put Trigg’s ring on my finger. When I turn the corner, he stands without a word and guides me to a gravLift and then to the armory, where I pull out the old heartspike, and ask if he can do me one last bit of magic.
