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I turn away, facing the wall of glass and the city beyond. The view is mostly Storm; the city only fills less than a third of the frame. I can’t tell if I’m doing the right thing by keeping the notebook to myself. It’s a cowardly thought, but I’d rather try to convince Pa than choose between betraying Pa and dooming Dalca.
I face him. “I’ll do my best.”
His eyes light up, and he gives me a soft, relieved smile. “Thank you.”
Dalca holds the door open for me. I walk with him in silence, stealing glimpses out of the corner of my eye. He’s told me a lot, to be sure, but there’s something yet unspoken between us. He told the Regia that I’m nothing to him—and he acts as if he meant it.
It’s like I’ve lost something I didn’t know I had.
We come to a floor-to-ceiling mosaic depicting warriors in red riding on the backs of horse-sized ravens, heading deep into a dark forest.He strokes his forefinger down the mosaic, stopping at an overgrown hedge of roses guarding a door. He presses down on the little door, and a section of the mosaic slides open to reveal a dark tunnel.
“Is it true,” I ask, “did you sleep in the old city when you were a kid?”
He pauses. “The Regia—my grandfather—once led me deep in the old city. He left me there with food and water to last three days. It took me nearer six to find my way out. I didn’t want him to see me as a failure, so I went back, night after night, until I had a pretty good map of it up here.” He taps his temple.
“That’s cruel.”
“Maybe. Before he left, he told me, ‘Only the best will be Regia.’ That’s true, isn’t it? The people deserve at least that.”
We walk in silence through the tunnel, down a flight of stairs. I stop him before we cross a bridge into the old city. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For deceiving you.”
“I understand,” he says, not meeting my eyes, “It was for your father.”
“The face change was so you wouldn’t recognize me. I didn’t intend to trick you with it.” But I did. “I didn’t mean to use your feelings—”
He gives me a sardonic look. “My feelings are my own business.”
I look away. “Of course.”
“Why bring that up?”
I flush. “I guess my feelings are my own business, too.”
We cross the bridge in silence, approaching the fossil of the old city. It’s eerie and silent and magnificent, but Dalca shows as little reverence as if it were his bedroom armoire. We go deep into the labyrinth of the old city, passing Wardana stationed as guards.
Before a domed building three times the size of Amma’s, Dalca stops. “For the record, I like this face better.”
He swoops inside, leaving me a little warm and wrong-footed. I follow him in. Part of the dome has caved in, and slabs of the ceiling lie scattered upon the semicircle of ancient stone benches before a stage. It’s a theater.
On the stage, still within that fist of stone, is Pa. The stone has retreated; it encloses him up to his shoulders.
If anything, he’s even more haggard, but his eyes glint with cold intelligence.
My neck warms with embarrassment, and for a moment, I can’t meet his eyes. I haven’t gotten him out; I’ve gotten caught myself, and worse, I’ve spent the morning debating giving his life’s work over to a boy who represents everything he and Ma tried to overthrow.
“Hi, Pa.”
“Oh, hello, Vesp.” He matches my tone, but his eyes are bright with relief. “What have you brought me this time?”
Pa drinks in the sight of me, and I wonder how worried he must’ve been. My eyes prickle. “Just the prince.”
“We’ve met.” Pa’s eyes go cold when he fixes them on Dalca.
“Pa... Dalca explained, about the mark of the Regia. About what went wrong, and about you knowing the other one, the better one.”
“Oh, Vesper.”
“I’ve flown with him above the Storm. I’ve seen that there’s nothing else. If giving him the mark can stop the Storm, if there’s the smallest chance it’ll work—”
