"No problem. And no need to go home. I can use the locker room--"
"Robes aren't stored there."
Right. Meredith would have fetched one while I showered and waited for me to finish. She would have offered me pearls of wisdom and--
Lock. Down. Now.
"All right. Let's go." Using Stairwells and Gates, we travel thousands of miles in seconds, stopping at Deacon's house--mansion--to acquire a robe for him, then at an outdoor market to buy manna since both our cupboards are bare.
I hurry through a shower. Deacon eats half the food and takes a power nap on my couch.
Clean and dry, I weapon-up, strapping blades to my waist, thighs and ankles. I slide Meredith's ring on my finger--lockdown--and pull a white robe over my head. The material is feather-soft. As I anchor my hair in a knot on the crown of my head, I head to the living room.
"Let's go," I say, and stuff my mouth full of manna. Energy zings me.
Deacon looks me over and shakes his head. "No weapons." He pushes a few keys on his keyboard. In a flash of Light, his Shell appears. "You'll need yours."
I reluctantly remove Meredith's ring and all the daggers and step inside my Shell, which is flush against the massage wall. We make our way to the Veil of Wings. People smile and wave at us. A few try to stop and chat with me, but Deacon sends them off as kindly as possible.
Everyone thinks I'm a hero, despite Meredith's death. They think I've finally proved myself loyal to the realm. I want to lift my head to the sky and scream, It wasn't me. I did nothing right and everything wrong. I'm a failure.
"You're tense," Deacon says with a frown. "Why?"
I ignore his question and ask, "Where are we going?" I won't lie to him, not even a small, innocent lie. Actually, there are no small, innocent lies. Saving his feelings today will only hurt him in the future.
I know this firsthand. My parents lied to me often. So did the people in charge at Prynne. Madame Bennett. Even friends, and once, Killian. Trust is precious. Once lost, it's difficult to rebuild.
But I won't tell Deacon about Killian, either.
"We're headed to the Courthouse. It's neutral territory, overseen by the Firstking. We do not break the Firstking's rules. Ever. Ignorance is not an excuse."
"Enlighten me, then."
"No weapons of any kind inside the building. No fighting anywhere, either verbally or physically. He is the judge supreme. When one of his delegates rules on a case, it is final. There are no appeals. Both Troikans and Myriadians attend the sessions, so be prepared for killing glares. We attend in Shells for the benefit of humans--they're usually the ones on trial."
Usually...
I think of my mother, desperate to switch sides to spend time with her infant son. I think of Killian...who might not be as happy in Myriad as he used to be?
If he would go to trial... I close my eyes, imagining the joy of having him nearby, of touching him and being touched by him, of working cases with him rather than against him, and I smile. I don't want to be parted from him. I want him out of danger, mine to protect. I want...him. I just want him.
Live well. When you step toward a dream, you step away from a regret. I'm coming for you, Killian.
"This way." Quickly and efficiently--like the boy himself--Deacon leads me to the outside edge of the realm.
We step through what looks to be a dense fog, and end up directly in front of the Veil of Wings.
Another step, and we're whisked to the border of a guard tower, where sunlight shines on one side and shadows cloak the other. Stone steps lead to the tallest skyscraper I've ever seen.
As we make our way up, Troikans nod at us. As predicted, Myriadians glare at us. Just past the towering double-door entrance, a guard pats me down. I'm unarmed and expect to be sent on my way, but he tugs the band from my hair.
I frown at him. "Seriously?"
"Choking hazard." He shrugs and throws the band at an oval mirror hanging on a wall. Only, the band ghosts through the glass, because it isn't glass; it's a Buckler hiding a...trash can?
Gimme!
Deacon and I move forward. The lobby is devoid of color or decoration. In fact, there isn't a single piece of furniture, just more stairs and what must be a thousand doorways. Our footsteps echo as we make our way up...up... The staircase moves with us, twisting and turning around corners. On every floor, we pass through a veil of jellyair, and I suspect we are traveling through a maze as well as a building.
Finally Deacon stops and taps a screen with a flashing digital number. 1001.
In The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, the heroine tells her husband the king a new story every night for one thousand and one nights to pique his curiosity and stave off her execution.
Stomach cramp.
"Game face on," Deacon mutters.
We quietly tiptoe past the doors and--
I don't know what I expected, but this isn't it. It looks like a courtroom found in the Land of the Harvest. There's a viewing section with benches. A waist-high wall with a swinging gate in the center divides the front section from the back. Beyond it is a desk for Troikan representatives and a desk for Myriadian representatives.
The judge's desk consumes the back wall, with a court reporter on one side and a witness seat on the other. There is a second seat beside the witness. The only noticeable difference? The floor is concrete, with several drains.
I go cold. The "punishment" rooms at Prynne had drains.
The judge isn't the Firstking. I've seen our creator only once, when Archer allowed me to glimpse Troika through his eyes, but he left a strong impression. He's tall and strong, but Light, such intense Light, radiates from his eyes, even his pores, making it impossible to distinguish his individual features. He carries a rainbow on his back as if it's a weapon, an actual bow. Power radiates from him, and as I'd gazed upon him, my blood fizzed; my skin felt as if lightning zipped over the surface.
This man is...odd. Half human and half spirit, as Victor and Elizabeth explained. He looks like he's made of wind and flesh. A ghost, but dappled, like water is raining over him.
--Here.--Deacon's voice whispers over the Grid. He waves to an open section on the bench, and we ease into place.
--So, what's going on?--I ask, thankful no one else can hear me.
--In the witness seat is the human on trial. She's the only human in the room. Her TB is the one seated beside her.--
The human. A thirtysomething female currently sobbing into her hands.
Deacon continues. --The ML, who works within the temporary sub-position of Barrister, is the one slapping the metal wand at the hologram playing beside the human.--
The judge gives us a fierce side-eye, as if he knows we're having a conversation inside our minds. Then, focusing on the TB, he says, "You are certain you're willing to do this?"
After a slight hesitation, the TB nods and says, "Yes, sir."
"Very well. You may proceed."
--Do what?--I ask Deacon.
--Every court case must be paid in blood. Since both realms agree the human isn't to be harmed, the Barrister on the losing side pays the price.--
--But why is blood demanded, of all things?--I struggle to understand.
--One way or another, a contract is paid in full, even when it's voided. Blood contains cells, nourishment for tissues, oxygen, antibodies for disease, hormones and other substances that help maintain health. Blood is the life of all flesh, and there is nothing more precious or priceless. Only blood can bind this woman to her contract--or set her free from it.--
Oh...zero. I get it. One way or another, someone is going to die today.
The hologram changes to reveal...a section of her life? Maybe her past? In it, a younger version of her looks over her shoulder before taking money from a grease-stained purse.
"Are you watching?" the MB demands of the TB. "Her mother worked hard for her cash. Cash she needed to pay for medicine. She had cancer. She existed rather than lived and her pain pills were her only so
urce of relief. This girl, the one you hope to add to your flock of sheeple, stole her dying mother's money--to get high."
--Um, why does Myriad want to keep her?--The question springs from me, not out of a place of judgment but out of a need to understand the proceedings. --Why does Troika want her? Why are we willing to risk one of our citizens for her?--
--Love is never about a person's actions. Love is about the person. This girl is loved. She has family in both Myriad and Troika. Family who will do anything to keep her or win her. More than that, the crimes mentioned...they are things that have eaten at her for years. Today, she's not the girl she was yesterday. We know it. Myriad knows it, too. They mention these things only as a means of winning the case.--
The scene changes. The human is speaking with another girl. "Tammy is such a slut. I don't know why we're friends with her. Payton snapped his fingers, and she came running." Snicker, snicker.
Another scene change. The human is in bed, snuggled against a boy's side. She calls him Payton. The boy she ridiculed Tammy for sleeping with.
"You consider yourself a horrible person, don't you?" the MB asks at her, and she only cries harder. "You steal. You lie. You degrade your supposed friends. Worse, you're a hypocrite. You cut others down for things you yourself have done. Shall I go on? Does Troika need to know more about your despicable character before you call a halt to these proceedings?"
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. My gaze locks on the Troikan Barrister, who remains silent in the witness seat.
--Why isn't the Troikan objecting?--My tone is fierce. I'm struggling not to object.
--He's only allowed to answer questions about his intent. The human must answer all others.--
--But why?--
Before Deacon can reply, the MB says to the TB, "You can't want this piece of garbage in your realm. Tell me you're not that foolish."
"I want this beautiful life in my realm, yes." The Troikan Barrister's voice is firm, assured.
"Beautiful," the MB sneers. "Did you fail to watch the feed?"
--Even if we win, the human must meet the requirements of our contract. She must forgive herself and even the people who hurt her today. If she can't do so, we fought for nothing.--Sadness tinged with dread adds a heavy weight to Deacon's words. They hang in my mind like a noose.
"And you." The MB sneers at the human. He's treating her like she's scum on the bottom of his shoe. "Do you wish to be ransomed from Myriad and given into the hands of Troikans? Those who have been your enemy for so long? Do you truly believe you can forgive yourself for the pain and anguish you caused their people? Do you think they will forgive you?"
She trembles. The MB is attempting to strip her of her humanity, to reduce her to raw nerves and the very anguish she's been accused of causing others. I grip the edge of my seat.
"What if Troikans expect perfection from you?" the MB continues. "With their countless rules and regulations, how can they not? Can you be perfect?"
She licks her lips, shakes her head. "No one can." A whisper. He's getting to her.
"That's right. No one can. If you return with us, we will accept you for who and what you are, no matter what you've done. You must simply admit you made a mistake asking for a court date and denounce Troika."
"Tell him you have no crimes," Deacon whispers, as caught up in the drama as I am. "Tell him you are free from your past. Tell him you are ready to start over."
I tremble as if I'm the one on trial. --Surely our Barrister prepped her for this?--
--He did. But knowing what's coming isn't the same as experiencing it.--
The noose tightens.
Radiating sorrow and regret, tears running down her cheeks and snot pouring from her nose, the human chokes out, "I've done despicable things. Unforgivable things."
The TB sheds a tear of his own.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I made a mistake. I can't risk the hatred of your people. I choose to remain with Myriad."
Cheers erupt from one side, groans from the other.
"So you have said." The judge bangs, bangs the gavel. "So it shall be."
A wiry blanket of disappointment wraps around me.
"This." Deacon's hands curl around his knees, his knuckles turning white. "This is how eighty-nine percent of cases end up."
And this is what Dior will face. Dior, who harbors resentment against Myriad. Who hates herself for the things she's done and the people she's allowed to suffer.
We have to prepare her. We have to prepare her hard, until the only sentence she's willing to speak is "I choose Troika."
Determined, burning with urgency, I jump to my feet. --Come on. We've got work to do, a case to win and a girl to save.--
--Not yet.--Deacon clasps my wrist and draws me back to the bench. --The proceeding isn't yet over.--
--But the judge banged the gavel.--And I know what's coming next, what Deacon warned me about. I don't want to watch. --Let's go. Please.--
--The Barrister had the strength to risk his life. We must have the strength to witness his death.--
My chest tightens as the MB smirks at the TB, who is standing, moving around the dais. He stops in front of the MB, his hands clenched at his sides. My throat threatens to close.
Pity darkens the TB's eyes. Pity, and a determination that is far more powerful than mine.
What I don't see? Regret.
Tremors rock me as the judge unscrews the top from the gavel, revealing a blade hidden underneath. A blade he hands to the MB.
"Weapons aren't allowed," I call, willing to risk punishment to stop this. My words go unheeded.
Deacon reaches over to squeeze my knee. "His name is Tom. He has a wife he adores. He works in the orphanage in his free time, teaching children how to play baseball. He is kind."
I want to scream at Deacon to shut up. I don't need to know. I don't want to know. I want to leave. But the TB--his name is Tom, kind Tom with a wife--doesn't deserve my cowardice.
Then...oh, then...
With a single motion, the MB slashes the TB's throat. I cry out, the reason for the drain suddenly, vividly clear.
Tom presses his hands against his wound. Lifeblood spills between his fingers and from his mouth. Though pain fills his eyes, the pity and determination never falter.
The human hunches over and vomits. Tom topples, lands with a heavy thump. He shakes...shakes, fighting death...and finally stills.
"The price is paid," Deacon rasps. "Even though it was paid in vain."
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: S_A_5/46.15.33
Subject: Let's get together
Come to my place. There are things I'd like to do in the dark...
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: S_A_5/46.15.33
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: On my way
Hopefully you're better with your hands this time.
Might Equals Right!
ML-in-training,
Sloan Aubuchon
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: Z_C_4/23.43.2
Subject: Things are gonna get freaky So I'm going to disconnect and take a little time out with Sloan. I know, I know. You'd rather we remained connected. Thing is, I'm giving you a heads-up, not asking for permission. We'd rather have privacy. And yeah, I know everyone claims intimate moments aren't recorded, but we'd rather not take any chances. I'm irresistible enough as it is.
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: Z_C_4/23.43.2
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: Very well I'll give you and Miss Aubuchon the rest of the weekend off, no questions asked. Be together, be pampered. Drink, be merry, relax and enjoy life. First, I have a new mission for you.
Miss Lockwood is in a vulnerable state. You will remind her of the comfort she can find in your arms. Details attached.
Might Equals Right!
Sir Zhi Chen
chapter sixteen
* * *
"Let the fire burn. You will rise from the ashes, and you will be stronger."
--Myriad
How am I supposed to prepare Dior for what's to come? I'm not prepared.
Who's to be her Troikan Barrister? Who will risk his--or her--life for a human who might cave under pressure? No one has volunteered yet.
Archer would step up to the plate in a heartbeat, but he's not here. Who does that leave? Me? The only things I know about court proceedings, I witnessed today. Would I be a help or hindrance?
Is Dior strong enough to persist as an audience views the worst deeds she's ever committed? Is she ready for her deepest secrets to be revealed?
Molten fire burns the center of my chest, and yet ice crystallizes in my veins. Is she ready to live a nightmare? Is she willing to forgive herself and start fresh? Or does the past hold her too tightly, determined to tug her back into the darkness?
No, scratch that. Does she hold the past too tightly?
The wise will rise, and the fools will duel.
There isn't an easy way to prep her. There's only a hard way. But even that might not work!
I'm too dazed to protest as Deacon steers me out of the courtroom. A Myriadian walks past us and snickers.
My hands ball, but remain at my sides. Fools will duel.
Insight from the Grid. And true! Breaking one of the Firstking's rules will do me no good.
We say goodbye to the guard tower and step into the Gate. When we exit, Levi is blocking the Veil of Wings, his expression stern.
"We received intel," he says in lieu of a greeting. "Javier Diez has an appointment with Mr. Flynn in roughly one hour. We'd like you to meet with him, Miss Lockwood."
Killian. My heart flutters. See him? Yes. Please. Deal with Javier Diez? No way.
"I'm not ready." Inadequacy delivers a one-two punch to my throat. What if I screw everything up? Alienate him? Get him killed? "I'd rather search for Victor." I haven't done nearly enough for my friend.
"Search and rescue isn't your job, Miss Lockwood." Levi pins me with a hard stare. A look he's got nailed. "Your job is whatever I assign you. Remember that."