“Must be your conscience you heard, because I didn’t call you one.”
“Your eyes accuse.” She leans forward like a child excited to share a new discovery. “Lyria, you have no grasp of these matters.”
“And you do?” I snap.
“Yes. I used to slouch, then I began to read. All my life I indicted my own size, my own power. You know I did. That shame was taught to me. To limit me. Have you not read the histories of man? Of course not. My grandfather gave them to me. I read on our journey from Mars, as we hid in wait in the asteroids. Alexander of Macedon. Caesar of Rome. Genghis of Mongolia. Ayaz of the Turks. These are the names that were hailed before Gold fell on Earth. Silenius au Lune, Akari au Raa, Lorn au Arcos, the Reaper. These are the names hailed today. Butchers of millions. Human history is proof of one thing: violence builds empires. Violence is worshiped, respected, heeded. Why are we monsters for embracing this truth? Why am I a villain? Every great people has done it!
“After so long fighting the wars of masters and conmen, are we not due our own war? Our own land? Golds have their games. Silvers have their contracts. We have our axes. Why not use them for ourselves?” She watches me and sees that I will never agree. “You will not understand. You had power in there.” She taps my head. “And you feared it. So, you gave it up. That is your choice. I have learned to stop fearing what’s inside me. That is my choice.”
I am crestfallen. I see in her what I saw in Harmony. Bitterness breeding entitlement. It’s a bitterness I know. For years it filled my mouth with ashes. My time with her, Victra, Ulysses, taught me I could not keep that bitterness. Better to die than live with it in my veins and let it poison me like Harmony. To be better, like Aurae, Sevro, Darrow, Athena, and even Cassius. Surely it’s not too late for Volga.
“I will not play the Reaper’s game,” Volga says. “I am deaf to his lies. But you are my friend. You were kind to me, so I will be kind to you. Go back to Mars, Lyria. Go back to your own people.”
“Aren’t you listening? You are my people, Volga. I came here for you and I’m not leaving without you. I already lost one sister. I won’t lose you too.”
“Your sister was a victim. I am not. I do not need saving.”
Anger flushes my face. “When did you become a Gold with black eyes?” I ask. “Polish it all you like. Read all the histories till you forget your own. Tattoo your face till you can’t see yourself. Will you kill babies, Volga? Like Harmony? You gonna send women and boys to your braves? We both know if Ephraim were here you wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. Will you take slaves, and bed them against their will like some middling Gold?”
She rises in a fury and towers over me.
“Who are you to judge me?” She shoves a finger in my face. “We were slaves. You were never a slave. You were a fat rat Gamma.” Her voice becomes nasty. “I know more about them now. About your mine. Your clan. Informers. You were bred to lord the scraps of the master over those more lowly than yourself. Bred to be their rats in the mines. Bartering secrets for cheese from the masters. Traitors to your own people.” She leans in. “And you are still their rat, Lyria. Coming here as Darrow’s tool. Asking me to betray a man who has given me everything. No, rat, I am not like you. I am a warrior of the Volk. If you will not leave, my duty is clear. I will deliver you to my king.”
“Then do it,” I say. “Because I ain’t leaving without you.”
“You think this a game? Are you not afraid? Look what my guards have done.”
She walks to the table and retrieves the sacks. She returns and empties them. The heads of Gudmund and Fenrir fall into my lap. Nauseous and sick, I feel a stubborn strength swell within.
“You afraid now, Lyria?”
“I been afraid since I can remember. But I ain’t giving up.”
68
LYRIA
The King and His Court
JUPITER PEERS OVER THE eastern horizon of Europa. In the twilight between the day and night, a chain of archipelagos stretches westward. Volga’s dreadnaught creeps over the water just as surely as dread creeps over my heart.
Thirteen islands pulse with the light of bonfires. High above, torchShips patrol the sky over the half-dome shields that protect the archipelagos and writhe with the muted color of soap bubbles. I’ve seen Hyperion. I’ve seen warships. But even I am awed at the sight of Europa’s famed Nixian Isles as Volga’s ship comes to a halt beyond the shields.
Each of the islands is host to a black stone statue of a Greek god. Like the statues, no two islands are alike. Some bear dramatic waterfalls and mysterious woods. Others are riven with fjords, like the north coast of Cimmeria. Some are spotted with wildflowers that drift into the sea like tattered shawls. The warriors who came to conquer the Rim gather on the plateaus of the islands around stolen acropolises that dance with firelight. I am too far away to distinguish their shapes, but the gems and gold the warriors wear must catch the light of their fires because it is as if the islands were sprinkled with multi-hued frost.
“A sight, are they not?” Volga’s actarius says from my side at the edge of the open-faced hangar. The Copper’s black and white robes have not a spot of dirt on them. “Volk for the most part. Fá could not leave too many to guard the Garter. Fá knows many still love Darrow. He could not trust them to watch after that great prize.”
I don’t know why she’s telling me this. I’ve learned her name is Nicator. A slave since the sacking of Olympia, she was once the vice-tertiary administrator of helium management in Cassius’s home city. Whatever that all means.
It’s been three days since Volga decided to give me over to Fá. Three days for the surface of Europa to be pacified. Apparently it’s ahead of schedule. I wonder if Darrow’s already tried his plan. I sigh. Not knowing is good, I guess. Means they can’t torture it from me.
“How many are there?” I ask the Copper, hoping to take my mind off what awaits me.
“Volk on the moon? Many. At the feast? Enough to require a requisition of one thousand auroch, four hundred thousand liters of mead, six hundred thousand liters of wine, fifty tons of bread, cheese, butter, five thousand drums of olives, one hundred thousand fowl.” The Copper spares a look back at my guards. “The great Fá knows his Core braves are restless out here in the dark, especially with the gossip that spreads through the ranks. He will tell them to take the Deep soon. A great demand. So he bribes them with riches, and sedates them with mysticism.”
“The new gossip? Darrow,” I say.
Nicator looks over at me, with interest. “Were you on Io when he fought Skarde? Of course you were. Sigurd’s friends brought you.” I say nothing. “Is he here? On Europa?”
“If I knew, why would I tell you?” I say. I glance behind us. The hangar is busy with preparations for departure. My Ascomanni guards smoke tobacco a few paces away while hundreds of Volga’s household braves load onto flatbed skiffs. They look glorious. The four gold torcs on each of their right arms are polished. They wear bright cloaks made from exotic furs or dread scale. Like Nicator, they are clean. Unlike Nicator, they are already drunk and laughing.