“An imposter?” I ask.
“Yes.” Diomedes’s eyes narrow, troubled by the memory. “His speech patterns and body mimicry were nearly perfect. Yet…I sensed something was amiss. The way he apportioned his weight as he walked…I could have stopped it. But I second-guessed myself. Was afraid I was wrong.” He snorts at himself. “That is why our armada is gone. I did not trust my instincts. You seem to have learned from your mistakes. So I will trust my instincts now.” He looks up with dark conviction. “I believe my uncle was that imposter. I believe Atlas au Raa is the Allfather of the Obsidians and that Fá is his creature. I believe this is repayment for our rebellion and that Atlas will not stop until all of the Rim is burning.” He considers. “Or starving.”
I stare at him.
Tension coils in my belly. It fits. It all fits. The unseen hand I felt. “Atlas was on the bridge of the Dustmaker? In person? He’s in Ilium?”
Diomedes nods. “I did not see his face. I have no evidence. But yes.”
I laugh and laugh. “You chose a damn fine time to tell us,” I say and wipe my eyes.
“I did not trust you before,” he says, petulant.
I bolt upright and bang on the cell door. “Athena, if you’re listening, you need to let us out. Athena! Fá will not let you live. Athena!”
Another cheer trembles through the stone, and a chant I can’t quite make out.
Cassius turns to Diomedes. “Say you’re right. And Atlas is the devil himself—as everyone keeps telling me. Why would he do this now?” he asks. “Why not wait for the Republic to fall? Mars could have been theirs.”
“Inertia,” I reply, abandoning my efforts on the door. “Atlas would have had to put this plan in motion years ago.” Diomedes nods his agreement. “Not even he could stop the boulder once it started rolling downhill. And…because he knows the Republic has already lost,” I admit. Cassius stares at me. “It’s true. As things stand. Atlas is preparing for the future. It’s not just about punishing you, Diomedes. That’s not how he works. He’s all about closed loops. He’ll make the Rim remember fear, and pave the way for a savior named Lune.”
“Not Grimmus?” Diomedes asks.
“No,” Cassius says at the same moment.
“Lysander’s fleet was still on its way out here last we saw,” I say. “They missed the ambush, Cassius. But they’ll arrive in time to play the hero. I know Atlas. All this horror he’s spread has been under the name of Atalantia—the impalements, the burnings, the pacifications. It makes sense now. He’s not a sociopath. He’s a student of history. He’ll pin all the evil on the Republic and on Atalantia, then take this war to the abyss so a snow-white savior can pull the worlds out into a shining dawn.” I laugh. Even the name of the ship is too rich. “Silenius the Light Bringer. Lysander the Light Bringer. That son of a bitch.”
Cassius shakes his head. “Lysander is many things, but he’s not a monster. Men like Atlas disgust him. He’d never be able to quiet his conscience. The slaughter in Sungrave alone…look what Lysander did at Heliopolis. The lengths he went to in order to save lives!”
“He’s a Lune,” I contend. “They’re capable of anything, especially when backed into a corner.”
“Oh, so everything is hereditary?” Cassius asks.
“No. What I’m saying is Octavia had him from the start.”
“And then I had him for ten years,” Cassius snaps. “He was never like that. Not even when I took him from Luna. He gave Virginia the scepter. He was a sweet little boy.”
“How was that sweet little boy the last time you were on Io?” I ask.
Cassius looks like he wants to hit me.
Diomedes, who had been watching us in silence, interrupts. “Cassius is right, Darrow.” Cassius relaxes, but still glares at me. “Lysander is not a part of this. I saw his face on the Dustmaker. When the ambush was sprung. He did not know. He recognized something was amiss as I did. Something about the imposter’s short-sword.”
“Wait.” Cassius turns on him with a frown. “On the bridge of the Dustmaker? Lysander isn’t…with his fleet? He isn’t on the Lightbringer crossing the Gulf?”
“No,” Diomedes says heavily. “His ships were too slow to match our pace, and had repairs to do. So he traveled with our navy at my invitation, along with a decade of Praetorians. He was with me on the Dustmaker’s bridge when it fell.”
Cassius’s face falls and he sinks back against the wall. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. I would imagine so. Atlas put a void contraption on my face. I could neither hear nor see. There was just darkness and pain.” He pauses, remembering that pain. “Then I felt someone grab me. I could not smell either. This someone dragged me. And fell themselves. I felt their body on mine. No armor, but a strong build. It had to have been Lysander. There was no other Gold on the bridge without armor. They put me in the lifepod and then I felt them grasp at my leg as they got pulled out.”
“If Lysander was on the bridge, was he not struck by the spines you were? The paralytics,” I say to Cassius’s umbrage.
“He was.”
“Then how could he move?”
“I have thought of this. My mother gave him a toxin leech after he was poisoned on Phobos by Atalantia. He was in a coma. He nearly died. It must have drained or neutralized the paralytic Atlas employed.” His tone softens for Cassius. “I am sorry that he was aboard. He wept when he thought you died on Io, and I know you had your differences, but he was the only Gold of the Core who gained my trust, and my mother’s, and even, I think, Helios’s. He honored his word and was truly a noble man. Had I to grant the credit for that, it would not be to Octavia.” He touches Cassius’s knee. “I mourn the loss of his light.”
It is the only eulogy that could have given Cassius reprieve from the guilt that’s been eating him alive, and it is even a redemption in a way. He slumps back against the wall, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Whatever animus I have for Lysander, I feel compassion for my friend, so I shut my mouth, and hope Diomedes’s words are true.
62
DARROW
The Tyrants’ Debris
A TROUPE OF BLACK OWLS shoves Diomedes, Cassius, and me into a war room aglow with a map of Ilium. Dozens of techs turn from their work in the shadowy room. Athena stands with Aurae beneath the constellation of information. One by one the moons and cities wink out until a single image hangs over her. The Obsidian armada creeps across the face of Jupiter toward Europa.
Aurae turns and gives me a smile before moving to the side to watch Diomedes. Athena rolls tension from her neck and sits down on a stool. The black hasta, Pyrphoros, lies in her lap.
“I was fifteen when my clan decided to seize control of our mine,” she says without preamble. “A long time ago now. The uprising was beautiful at first. But when I watched my elders execute our hostages, I knew we were doomed. Still. When my favorite elder put the gun in my hand and asked if I was a gasfly or a warrior of Red, my finger pulled the trigger. Eleven times. I took eleven lives. My clan proved to the Rim that Reds are bloodthirsty animals who must be kept in check.”