—?—
Tristan studies the moon from his favorite spot at the top of the tower, alone. Seated on the windowsill, he contemplates the next bead on his dark bracelet. He’s eaten twenty-five. But each time he counts them, the number doesn’t decrease as much as he expected. Perhaps there are more beads on this tricky bracelet than meets the eye, and he will never know the true number until none remain. A cruel trick, to be expected from someone as devious as Mance. That’s the price of love , he decides tiredly, steels himself, then bites the next, grinding it to dust on his tongue. The taste has not improved. Has it gotten worse?
“I still cannot believe you would trust such a twisted man.”
Tristan glances at Raya, who stands at the top of the spiral stairs with her arms folded, then returns his sleepy eyes to the window. It’s almost full … the moon, in just a few more days .
“Are you not exhausted? Eating those disgusting beads?”
It is fine , says Tristan over his shoulder.
“But every single hour? No breaks? When do you sleep?”
I shall sleep when I am dead .
“He is probably so happy with himself, this Mance, amused by how very stupid we all are, running about gathering items for a silly ritual that won’t work. You cannot raise the dead. Oh, I grow tired even complaining about it.” Her heels carry her down the steps as she says, “I came up here to ask if you wanted to join me for a beer, but I’ve suddenly changed my mind. I am going on an errand of my own now. I deserve it.” Her voice fades and echoes as she descends. “Goodnight.”
It doesn’t take much thought to conclude what errand she has in mind. I thought we agreed for you to stay away from the boy?
Raya stops, only the top of her head visible. “Boy …?”
Everyone is a boy to us, even in their late thirties . I really do wish you would respect my requests .
“I laugh inwardly at describing your demands as requests.”
It is for his best interest that you not visit him .
“But Kaleb—”
Nor say his true name aloud .
She turns to face him, yet her eyes catch sight of something else. Across the room by the torn painting that leans against the wall sits a box—the gift box, wrapped in its shiny green ribbon.
Tristan follows her line of sight, frowns. Don’t worry, I still don’t plan to give it to Lord Markadian . I may even destroy it and —
“I just realized I don’t care. You know what? I’ve suffered enough by you today. I’m quite sure I can do whatever I please, even if that means discreetly visiting a nameless violinist.”
Raya , Tristan starts, but she has already gone. He flees the window and quickly follows her down the spiral staircase. Have you considered that the other Bloods may notice your frequent visiting of him? They would call favoritism, harass him, ask questions …
The illusions of the House take over again as the two reach the bottom of the stairs, passing into the Midnight Garden, the large domed arena of bright green trees, flowers, and artificially colorful butterflies, fluttering about their face as they walk.
Raya, I do not wish to deprive you of —
“All you do is deprive me,” she snaps, stopping at a fork in the cobblestone path between two overhanging trees, long garlands of purple flowers dangling. “I have no title or importance in this House, save for what you allow. What kind of existence is this? I deserve some music in my life. I deserve Blood 1025.”
Even the uttering of his number casts ice down Tristan’s spine, as if even the butterflies can overhear. Every good thing is earned with time . Don’t you think I had to earn my spot by our Lord Marky’s side? Years, it took, years of being invisible and powerless …
“And then you threw it away overnight for a boy .”
Tristan is taken aback. Raya …
“I know what you’re like. Nothing means anything to you. Nothing matters. Everyone will suffer and someday die. Every night, you carry yourself around rooms like a golden carriage, no care in the world, no worries … but do you know what I think?” A glowing purple butterfly daintily takes a rest on her arm. She swats it away with such violent intent, the illusion vanishes in a cartoon puff of smoke. “I think it’s all a mask you wear. I think you do care. Terribly. I think Blood 1025 is special to you. You hide him away. But why do you do that? … Who is he?”
Another butterfly appears, neon blue, and lands on the tip of Tristan’s nose. He ignores it, struck by her question. Well, if he was, in fact, special to me … do you think then that I may hold his best interest at heart in asking you to keep away?
“I think I miss the years I was on my own, independent of this place, no rules, no Lords, no Bloods.” One side of her face is lit by the green glow of the trees hanging over them, making her look alien, the white half of her hair appearing pale green. “Can I help that he makes me happy when he plays his violin, even if his music is sad? Is that wrong? That sadness can make me … happy?”
“Not in the least,” comes another voice.
The butterfly takes flight from Tristan’s nose as he turns, uncharacteristically caught off-guard.
Ashara emerges from the path next to them, her green dress as radiant as emeralds in the glow of the illusionary forest, hair swishing side to side, lips curled by her signature superior smirk.
Raya lifts her eyebrows, alarmed. “A-Ashara.”
“It is perfectly natural to feel happy listening to sad music. I am rather fond of it, actually.” She stops in front of Raya with a satisfied look. “What was this I heard about a violinist?”
Raya’s eyes snap to Tristan’s.
Tristan finds himself fidgeting with the bracelet, his latest restless habit since meeting with the necromancer, before he faces Ashara. Just that we miss visiting the orchestra, back when —
“No, not quite,” Ashara cuts him off. “It was a specific one you both spoke of. Blood 1025, I overheard?”
Raya hasn’t closed her lips since Ashara appeared, her face a wreck of worry. “Blood 525, actually,” says Raya, picking up on Tristan’s instinct to lie. “I was talking about 525 and his—”
“No, I did distinctly hear 1025,” insists Ashara. “Goodness, everyone here holds their toys so close to their chests. It’s a very Vegasyn quality, I’ve come to learn. Does my brother terrorize everyone so much that you’ve come to mistrust everything? Have other toys been taken away? We ought to trust one another.” Ashara brings a hand to Raya’s cheek, surprising her, as she caresses her face. “Does 1025 bring you joy?”
Raya stares upon Ashara, scared, awed, paralyzed.
To her silent face, Ashara says, “It so happens I’m looking for a new musician. The previous one … has sadly retired.”
Retired isn’t the word I’d use , interjects Tristan.
“Retired of his head,” amends Ashara flippantly. Raya doesn’t seem to acknowledge any difference, still hypnotized. “He or she would be given a purpose and serve us well. Isn’t that lovely?” Her smile is as warm as a mother’s, as sweet as a sister’s. She is still stroking Raya’s face. “Should I interview this … 1025 …?”
“Yes,” says Raya dreamily.
Tristan takes a step forward, stops himself, alarmed.
Ashara’s smile remains. “Good.” She lets go of Raya’s face, appearing satisfied. “Please keep away from 1025, then, until I have conducted my interview. If the talented Blood proves true and loyal to us, then you will have your music returned to you soon enough, and in great supply.”
That brings Raya pause. “True and loyal?”
“His loyalty must be tested, of course. What is it?” Ashara then asks to a distressed Raya. “You’re worried? If you ever wish to hold a title anywhere in our society, you should learn never to grow attached to your Bloods. Over a thousand crawl beneath your feet like mealworms. I doubt very much he is the only musician among them. Learn to weed out the bad. And yes ,” she then says with a flippant, mocking sort of chuckle, “it may go against some truce you have with your local humans, but can it not be viewed as fair game if a human wishes to betray you?”
Raya casts her eyes to the floor, troubled.
“There, there,” says Ashara, putting a finger under Raya’s chin and lifting it, “do not pout. It will be over quickly. He will be tested tonight, in fact, in a conveniently natural turn of events.”
Chin still held up by Ashara’s finger, Raya gasps. “Tested?”
“I caught whispers that some of your Bloods are plotting an escape. Mmm, yes, an appropriate reaction,” she adds, amused when Raya’s eyes widen. “I know how to monitor the humans. I know how to have eyes and ears everywhere. This is something my brother can improve on. He’s lucky I’ve returned.”
“How can any of them escape?” wonders Raya aloud. “The House of Vegasyn is impossible for a mortal to navigate.”
“Oh, they cannot truly escape. It is a mere daydream.”
“Then how—?”
“I plan to stage their opportunity. Allow them to think they are succeeding. The path will be perfectly open to them.” Her every word drips with a specifically dark and playful pleasure. “I think it is healthy, to let a human feel the lustrous pull of hope … only to crush it between your fingers like a bug. Seven bugs, to be precise.” She chuckles to herself. “1025’s music is worth nothing if his heart isn’t true. Don’t you see humans can’t be trusted? They are lower life forms in every way, even literally.” She faces Tristan with authority. “I trust you’ll assist in setting your friend straight, being the older and wiser of you two. Off you go, Raya,” she then says with a wink at her. “I must speak with Tristan alone.”
Raya, who looks like she swallowed a butterfly, quickly sees herself out of the garden. Tristan’s eyes linger on his friend as she fades through the greenish-white haze, butterflies following her with their ghostly glow.
Ashara strolls up to a hanging garland from the tree, plucks a purple petal from a flower. “How about the dead body problem that is so plaguing my brother? Have you solved it yet?”
Tristan can’t remember the last time he was questioned by someone in such a way, making him feel like a child. Was it in a classroom he shared with Kyle, when a teacher called upon him to answer a question, then scolded him for his answer? Granted Tristan’s answer was wildly inappropriate to say in front of a room full of impressionable, soft-minded teenagers, but it was more honest than the teacher expected, and who better to know the histories than someone who literally lived it? The textbooks were so inaccurate. It very much pained Tristan to lie.
It does not, however, pain Tristan at all to lie to Ashara. The situation is being handled brilliantly . Markadian will be pleased .
“The wife of the deceased is becoming … inquisitive,” she goes on. “Not good. I dislike coming home to messes.”
Markadian trusts my ability to handle such messes , says Tristan with an aloof smile. One time, I had to wash blood out of a Persian rug, a real one, non-illusionary, and would you believe, the solution was something I had picked up in the human world involving vinegar and a dollop of unscented dish detergent —
“I know who you are.”
Tristan pauses, tilts his head, looks at her.
“My brother may be soft on you, but I am as hard, sharp, and deadly as the silver bullets you put through your creators.” She studies the purple petal pinched between her fingers. “You know, were I Lordess, it would be the most unforgivable sin to destroy your own creators. There’s something deeply perverse about it. Unnatural. Your pretty blond head would be removed from your shoulders and hung at the front of my House for such an offense. I may yet make it a law going forth, a law for all the west region when my brother finally names me Lordess by his side. Don’t worry,” she suddenly adds, her voice turning sweet, “your offense would be grandfathered in, of course, you would be pardoned. If we had to hunt down every past offender for breaking the new laws I will implement … can you imagine the paperwork?” At once, she grinds the purple petal between her fingers into dust. “Oh, how I relish the scent of your fear right now.”
Thank you , says Tristan at once, smiling. I shall place it in a bottle and market it as a special brand of cologne for cowards . You will earn a well-deserved royalty for every sale .
“Funny,” says Ashara, lets out a bark of dry laughter, “that is always what you are, funny, since your birth, funny. I wonder if you will die laughing someday …” She strolls down the long cobblestone path. “Funny, funny, funny,” she sings, then turns a corner, gone.
Tristan’s smile fades.
He makes his way swiftly through the infirmary, passes the room that used to keep Brock’s bloodied corpse.
Passes the blood donation area that is empty at this late hour.
Enters the elevator and taps a button near the very bottom.
It does not respond to his touch.
Ashara is quick, likely having predicted he or Raya would try to warn Kaleb. Or perhaps the effect was instant, the human cells being sealed off. Or even worse, Ashara already knew it all, had prepared the test ahead of time, and there was never even a sliver of a chance of Tristan gaining the upper hand.
No one will be able to speak to Kaleb. No one will be able to warn him. No one can protect him ever again. There isn’t even a human in the blood donation area to send a message through.
Tristan steps back from the array of blank elevator buttons, stares at them, heart sinking, ridden with guilt and anger.
But guilt and anger look like nothing on Tristan’s face.
He shows nothing on his lips nor his face. Not in his eyes. Not in his posture. Decades upon decades of life have taught him to keep every cell of expression within him.
His every true feeling, a precious secret.
Like a boy he once saved from a fire.
A boy who is now a man.
You are on your own now , says Tristan. Your life, your fate, your future … perhaps for the first time … truly in your hands .