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I wait for him to speak. Nervous energy hangs between us, like a bridge I don’t quite know how to cross.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks. “Is there anything you need?”
I glance at our surroundings. “I’m fine,” I say slowly. “But I’d like to know why I’m here.”
“You’re safe here. Neither Ragno, nor any that wish to do you harm, will get to you here.”
“I’m here for my protection?”
“And something else.” His jaw works. “I ask that you speak to your father.”
“About what?”
“There is something your father knows. It’s the key to fixing everything.”
The locket grows heavier. “What could he possibly know?”
“You saw the death masks of the Regias. You know they’ve been dying younger and younger. My mother, too, is dying. As the Regia weakens, the Storm strengthens. I will not let the Storm win.
“I’ve traced every rumor, every last whisper about what your fatherwas researching twenty years ago. Every surviving fragment of his work, I’ve read. As has Casvian. He was studying the Regia’s mark. I think he discovered what went wrong all those years ago, when the marks were combined into one.”
Two marks. My mind goes back to the old shrine. “One for the Great King we know, one for his other, darker side?”
“Yes, perhaps. The Great King is not usually depicted with that proto-ikon, but that temple you found with the shattered statue was an ancient one, if humble. We overlooked it.”
“Because you didn’t think anything important could be in the fifth?”
Light glimmers in his eyes. “I was wrong.”
“I don’t understand how this mark would change things.”
“The Regias of old weren’t mere vessels. They would retain their essential selves when they became Regia. They would be joined with the Great King, minds and hearts linked in exchange for power, but back then, they kept their souls. A stronger Regia—a Regia who isn’t dying—will be able to fight the Storm, like the Regias of old. We could regain the lost rings, and more. Imagine, a Storm pushed to the distant horizon.”
Unbidden, an image of Dalca kneeling before the Regia comes to mind. It mingles with my dream, and I have to ask, “Dalca... Is this to save your mother?”
He folds in on himself. “My mother... When a person becomes the Regia, they forfeit themselves. It is not my mother in there, in her body. Not anymore. She has become the Regia. The Regia does not speak the way my mother did, nor does she walk the way my mother used to. She doesn’t dance. She doesn’t... Now and then, I might glimpse a shadowof my mother in the way the Regia smiles. But it is not her. My mother is long gone. I don’t dream of rescuing her.”
The dark, miserable expression on his face gives way as he marshals his emotions, remembering his princely mask. “It’s not a sad thing,” he says. “She’s become something more. She’s our only hope against the Storm, and I must do all I can to aid her.”
I whisper, feeling like I’m picking at a scab, “And if she dies?”
A flicker of real fear shows in his eyes, but it’s gone so quick I might’ve imagined it. “Then I’ll take her place, and my children will take mine. That’s what it means to be an Illusora. Our lives are on loan to us, until the city demands them back.”
His words are noble, a prince’s words, exactly right. But his hands ball into white-knuckled fists. I see him. A paper-thin exterior of a heroic prince, selfless, dedicated to his people. Underneath is nothing but terror; it shows itself in the dark of his eyes, in the clench of his teeth, in the way his hands are never at ease. How did I miss that his noble exterior was all an act to hide the fear beneath? For all his show of perfection, it’s his flaws that help me understand him. After all, haven’t I buried my sorrow the same way he hides his fear?
On his shoulders is a far greater burden than any I’ve held. I admire him for it. Part of me wants to draw him into my arms, to help him carry his burden, to shield him from his fear. I recognize my own selfishness: I’d make myself important at his side. I’d make his dreams my dreams. I’d trade a leash of blood for a leash of something else.
I should give him Pa’s notebook, but something makes me hesitate. He wants to stop the Storm, true. But I can’t be sure that he wants that more than he wants to save his mother, more than he wants to save himself.
What other small evils will he commit out of fear, for the sake of the city, for his mother’s life, for his own soul? When will those small evils become big evils?
I can’t do it. I can’t hand it over.
I trace my left wrist with my right thumb as my pulse races. “What do you want from me?”
“The Regia’s body is failing. The healers say she has months if she’s blessed. Weeks if she’s not. If she dies—no matter how well we prepare, and how quickly I take on the mantle—the Storm will swell. It’s already moving faster than we’ve ever seen it—who knows how much of the city it’ll take at once. And then, once I’m Regia, the Great King will take over, and I won’t be able to fix anything.
“There’s a very small window to save the city. I hope you can convince your father to share what he knows. For all our sakes.”
