The Diabolic

  “Oh.” His voice was soft. “Nemesis, I am so sorry.”

  “It was just a creature.”

  He frowned. “But you were fond of him.” He reached out a hand. “Come here.”

  I recoiled. “No. Just rest.”

  His mouth tightened. He tried to sit up, to come to me—and failed, collapsing against the pillows.

  I hid my fist in my skirt. Fought with everything in me the urge to go to him, to help him. “Rest,” I said again, backing away from him.

  This time, he did not protest. “I’ll come see you when I’ve recovered,” he rasped.

  As I walked back to my chamber, I felt strangely drained. Gone, dead, that flight of fancy that had powered me down this corridor so recently. I had recovered my senses now, returned to the brutal, stark reality where I was a Diabolic and Tyrus was but a vulnerable, fragile being, just like Sidonia had been.

  Sidonia. I pressed my hand over my mouth and jammed back the rough sound that wanted to emerge. I had the strength of four men, yes. But I did not have the strength to endure another loss like that one. Having a heart that burned with emotion meant having a flame that could be doused in an instant by forces you could not fight, perils you could not see. To care was to be helpless in the worst possible way.

  As I entered my chamber, I vowed to myself: I would never experience that weakness again.

  Tyrus’s planetary fever stretched on for a week. I knew he couldn’t be dying, because Doctor nan Domitrian spent as much time eating as ever, rather than cloistered in the Successor Primus’s chamber with him.

  I didn’t visit Tyrus again, but he never truly left me. He intruded into my thoughts, images of him infiltrating my inward vision. When I slept, when I exercised, when every minute crawled by during the day, I found myself picturing Tyrus, hungering for Tyrus. It was as though I’d sampled some narcotic and grown instantly addicted. I could not purge the longing from my system.

  When Tyrus finally emerged from his sickbed, I felt acutely attuned to the changes in him, for all that I tried to focus elsewhere. He was visibly thinner but in good spirits. Eagerness glinted in his eyes at the sight of me. I found reasons to turn away from those eyes—to avoid him even as he continued to plague my thoughts.

  One day as I did pull-ups, I discovered him watching from the doorway. “You can’t avoid me forever,” he said.

  I trained my attention to the spot between his eyes, willing my vision out of focus. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What’s the matter? I know something’s wrong.”

  I dropped to the ground to do push-ups, pretending to ignore him. It felt like turning my back on a supernova. He blazed in my awareness. I felt his presence to my bones.

  “It’s because I kissed you, isn’t it?” He strode over and stood before me. “You’re anxious.”

  “I am not anxious.” I forced the words out with a sneer as I shoved myself upright, a sheen of sweat dampening my skin. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. “I am irritated.”

  His eyebrows jumped. “Oh?”

  “I’m not like you. I can’t feel what you can, Your Eminence.”

  A small smile crooked his lips. “I would beg to differ. You seemed entirely full of feeling when we left Lumina.”

  “Did you think so?” I was pleased with the indifferent tenor of my voice. “Then I must apologize for misleading you, Your Eminence.”

  He grasped my arm, his touch scorching me. “Tyrus, damn it. I’ve told you to call me by name.”

  “That’s not appropriate.”

  “To hell with propriety, Nemesis! We’ve never been about that.”

  “We’ve never been about anything!” I ripped free of him and turned away. “I am not a person, Tyrus.” I spat the name at the wall. “I can’t feel love. I can’t be a paramour or a lover or a companion. That’s not what I am, it’s not what I’m capable of.” I wheeled back. “You expect me to be more than I am. You’re asking the impossible.”

  He said nothing, but his face had gone pale. So soon after his recovery, the sight alarmed me—and alarm was not what I wished to feel. I wished to feel nothing, as a Diabolic properly should.

  He closed the distance between us and pulled me to him roughly, his mouth finding mine. The kiss was forceful, demanding. His arms banded around me, tight and powerful as they pulled me against the lean expanse of his body.

  For one stupid, unforgivable moment, he overcame me again. The feel of him, after so many days spent hungering for him . . . Like being woken into a dream, I had the sense I was rising outside myself. This was what I had wanted. This was all I had wanted. . . .

  And it could be lost in a moment.

  The black, choking fear freed me from my daze. I shoved him away. “Enough! You ask too much of me. Would you ask a dog to create artwork? Would you demand that a Servitor compose poetry? I cannot do this. I am incapable of real feelings for you. I will never be what you want. Let it go. Stop this.”

  Tyrus’s expression cooled, that careful mask sliding back over his face. He studied me a moment in that unnervingly calm way that seemed to penetrate all my defenses.

  Then he nodded. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I won’t force my affection where it’s unwanted. From now on, I’ll leave you be.”

  “That’s all I ask.” I turned away from him and resumed exercising. I was painfully aware of him until he finally left.

  We did not spar again, nor did we speak outside of bland courtesies for the rest of the journey. Tyrus became so remote and chillingly civil that it would have been easier if he’d shown anger to me. Every time we stood together in a room and that glacial coolness froze the air between us, I tried to tell myself that this was what I’d wanted. I had no interest in—and no business feeling—such unsettling, aching emptiness.

  Yet I could not will it away.

  Perhaps Tyrus and Deadly had not been the only victims of Lumina. This unsettling need that had flared to vibrant life as we left that planet seemed like a fatal illness.

  But I would heal from it. After all, I was a Diabolic, and Diabolics had no souls. Everyone knew that. I would never again be such a fool as to doubt it.

  36

  TYRUS AND I returned to the Chrysanthemum to find a celebration being thrown in his honor. The Emperor himself strode forward to greet us as the entire Valor Novus hummed with celebrants wearing gleaming ceremonial garb.

  “The man of the hour!” The Emperor laughed heartily and drew Tyrus into the warmest of embraces. “You must regale us all with tales of how you quelled this rebellion. Did you release the Resolvent Mist?”

  “Oh, this?” Tyrus calmly held up the phial. The crowd gasped and recoiled. They recognized it. “I know you ordered me to use it, but after discussion with my lady love . . .” He put his arm about my waist, drawing me against him. “Well, she persuaded me to a new view of the Luminars. ‘Beloved,’ she said, ‘they are reasoning creatures. So reason with them!’” He offered a wondering smile to the watching crowd. “Can you credit it? On her counsel, we simply . . . talked it out.”

  The Emperor’s expression had darkened now, and no wonder. With the audience of Grandiloquy listening avidly, Tyrus had just undermined his uncle’s own policies. The Emperor had ordered him to kill the ruling Luminars. Tyrus had chosen instead to spare them.

  “You took a great deal of authority onto yourself,” the Emperor said mildly, an edge of danger in his voice.

  “Forgive me, Uncle.” Tyrus released me and dropped to his knees, catching up the Emperor’s hand and pressing it to his cheek. The silence was absolute, the crowd about us holding its breath. Then Tyrus said the fateful words, “I only thought—Lumina is a wealthy province, and with the royal coffers running dry . . .”

  A collective gasp rolled through the crowd at the casual airing of such a dangerous sta
te secret. The Emperor paled.

  “. . . it seemed prudent,” Tyrus continued, “not to start a full-scale conflict with them. Not when I could use the powers of persuasion to talk them down.” He hesitated, feigning confusion as he peered up at his uncle. “I assumed Your Supreme Reverence would approve. Do you say I acted wrongly?”

  The Emperor glared down at Tyrus, the cords of his neck bulging, rage barely leashed. I looked beyond him and found the Grandeé Cygna watching closely, an unpleasant smile toying with her mouth. She was no fool. She grasped precisely how much Tyrus had publicly undermined the Emperor just now. But could she possibly divine Tyrus’s deliberation in doing so? And if so, would she use this occasion to whisper poison in her son’s ear about Tyrus?

  The Emperor yanked his grip from Tyrus’s, then took a slow survey of the room, encompassing all the Grandiloquy who’d just heard open discussion for the first time of the Crown’s dire financial straits . . . who’d just seen for the first time that the Emperor bayed for blood while the Successor Primus advocated moderation and reason. . . .

  I caught Tyrus’s eye and exchanged a level look with him. How cleverly he’d arranged this: securing a great victory that ensured he’d have a significant audience upon his return, and waiting until then, only then, to make his first true move against his uncle. Not for one moment had he played the madman today either. He’d officially abandoned that ruse. And as my eyes darted back up to the Grandeé Cygna, I saw from the mounting confusion on her face that she’d noticed it too.

  Under the weight of so many eyes, the Emperor finally mustered a sick smile. He drew Tyrus to his feet. “How you have surprised me, my nephew.” Despite his gracious tone, his eyes looked cold and unforgiving.

  “Senator von Impyrean is a gentling influence on me,” Tyrus replied with a shrug. He pulled me back to his side. “I would be lost without her.”

  “So I see.”

  There was no warmth in the Emperor’s voice, and his face was like a mask of death when I glimpsed it again. A great apprehension raced through my veins. This moment marked a turning point. Whatever eventual confrontation Tyrus would face with his uncle, whatever deadly battle he would wage to usurp the imperial throne—this moment marked its beginning.

  It surprised me how relieved I was to return to my villa for the first time in weeks. As I walked toward it, I even relished the controlled beauty of the sun-drenched sky dome, nowhere near so daunting after standing on the surface of an actual planet and experiencing its fearsome weather.

  Here at the Chrysanthemum, all was deliberate. No insects swarmed the air but those designed for the garden. No humidity thickened in the lungs. There were no plants wrestling together in random, chaotic dysfunction. The only organisms that acted here without deliberation were the human beings.

  My gaze fell on Deadly’s favorite tree. A pang wrenched through my chest.

  My thoughts still lingered with him when I stepped inside my villa, so I didn’t immediately notice the changes. They registered as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, though: a Servitor tending a new jasmine plant, an unfamiliar gown being hemmed by another Servitor.

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I held very still, listening. Someone was here. I heard a footfall that sounded nothing like the mono­tonous, even plodding of my Servitors. Someone stepping a few paces, stopping, turning about.

  I stalked toward the next room, where the intruder lurked. Whoever it was, they would give me an explanation—or they wouldn’t have long to live for this trespass.

  I moved through the doorway.

  And Sidonia spun around, relief on her face. “There you are! I was getting worried.”

  Blank shock stopped me in my tracks. I gawked at this mirage. It was a trick—it must be. Sidonia was dead. But this girl—

  She had altered her coloring, given herself pale skin and hair, light eyes, a very rudimentary attempt at subterfuge. But her template was clearly Sidonia’s.

  I didn’t believe in ghosts or specters. But I could find no other explanation. I stood dumbly as she crossed to me, threw her frail arms around me, and buried her head in the crook of my shoulder.

  “Oh, Nemesis, you’re well!”

  The smell was Sidonia’s. Her favorite lavender oil. This wasn’t real. Surely it wasn’t real. I was going mad!

  I lurched back. “I’ve lost my mind.”

  “No, no, you haven’t.” Donia’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s a long story. But I’m here now, Nemesis. I’m all right.”

  I swallowed. Reached out to touch her—and gasped and snatched back my hand when my fingers closed on warm, living flesh. “Tell me,” I whispered.

  When she reached again for my hand, I recoiled. Hurt flashed through her face. “Won’t you come closer?”

  “No.” My voice sounded so small. I was afraid of her—afraid she’d prove a dream.

  “The last time we talked,” she said, “you were nervous. You’d laughed. Remember? And it troubled you.”

  I exhaled. That was a universe ago, an eon long past. Back then Deadly yet lived, and Sidonia was a subspace transmission away, and Tyrus was only another stranger, a madman in the crowd. . . .

  “I knew you’d be mad at me, so I didn’t tell you I was coming.” She gave a short, unsteady laugh. “I didn’t tell Mother and Father, either. We still had Sutera nu Impyrean’s identity chip, so I used it to steal aboard a supply vessel, then created orders sending her here as your Etiquette Marshal. I thought I would check on you, make sure you were all right, and then leave. . . .”

  My knees gave way. I fell to the floor, unable to look away from her, unable even to breathe.

  She knelt across from me, her expression fraught with feeling. “And then I heard our fortress had been destroyed.”

  “Donia.” I murmured the word in wonder. It was her. She was here. She was alive!

  “So I came here—but you were gone, Nemesis. I was so worried about you!”

  “Donia!” The word ripped from me, and I plowed into her.

  Donia cried out as I bowled her over, pulling her into a hug. And then she was laughing against me, the loveliest sound in all the universe. She’s alive, she’s alive . . .

  I realized I was shaking, making a sound in my throat like sobs, and I knew Donia was alarmed. She tried to pull away, but I wouldn’t let her, I couldn’t let her go. And then she gasped, “Nemesis, you’re too strong, you’re hurting me.”

  I loosened my grip on her at last. She took hold of my face in her small hands, and her eyes shone into mine. “Oh, Nemesis, I’ve missed you, too. Have you been well?”

  It took a moment to muster my reply to this ridiculous question. “No,” I said.

  She smiled sadly. “Nor have I.”

  But that was going to change now. For both of us.

  Donia was here. She was alive. I could ask for nothing more of this existence, this universe. I couldn’t question that there was something greater than me that was kind and fair and benign, just as the vicars claimed in the services at the Great Heliosphere, for now I had this proof with me. The light of the stars would never bless a Diabolic, but in that moment, I could have wholeheartedly thrown myself into worship of the Living Cosmos for restoring Donia to me.

  I would never allow her to be taken away again. Even as the thought settled in my mind, a dark edge of worry crept through me. She was alive, but she would not remain so once she was discovered here. If people learned that she was the real Sidonia Impyrean, she’d face execution for the treason of sending me in her place—and I’d face execution for taking her place. Tyrus would be questioned as well. The Emperor would crack down on his nephew, and families like the Pasuses would eagerly clamor to eradicate the last hint of Impyrean influence.

  But what was the alternative? Sidonia could not hide as my Etiquette Marshal while waiting for the Emperor’s death. She was by all rights
a galactic Senator, her father’s heir.

  For the next several days, I mulled over this problem. I did not leave the villa, perfunctorily dismissing Tyrus’s every message or summons. After such a confusing and tumultuous period, it seemed all the strangeness and ambiguity of my universe had disappeared, replaced by a glorious profusion of rightness: she was here again and I was her Diabolic and my purpose was crystal clear once more. I’d wondered how the universe could keep existing after her death, how I could go on without her. But it turned out I didn’t need to.

  Donia wanted to know everything of my life at the Chrysanthemum, so I recounted all the details as carefully and dispassionately as I could. I told her of alienating Gladdic, and to my surprise, she smiled and said tenderly, “Oh, Nemesis,” as though it didn’t matter to her in the least. It roused a faint smile from her to hear of Elantra’s failed attempts to get me to voice heretical sentiments. Her face became drawn with sorrow as she heard of that fateful day that had condemned her family.

  I had to stop speaking for a while because tears began slipping down her cheeks, and then it became a matter of being silent and stroking her shoulders while she wept again for her loss.

  Embraces had never come naturally to me. Back in the Impyrean fortress, they’d always felt like a strange dance movement no one had adequately choreographed for me. But I had started to learn the way of it with Tyrus, and that skill served me well now as I put my arms around her. “It’s all right,” I whispered, and at last her tears slowed.

  “Tell me what happened after that,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

  I didn’t wish to revisit that time. The memory of those awful days after her supposed death felt like a blade digging at my core, shredding marrow and ligaments.

  “I was distraught,” I said stiffly. I struggled to detach myself from the memories, as if they belonged to a stranger. “I moved against the Emperor.”

  Donia gasped.

  “His Diabolic, Enmity, fought me. She would have killed me, but for . . . for the Successor Primus. The Emperor’s heir.”