“I’ve seen dead babies in the aftermath of korabi strikes, Krush. Once you’ve seen that, a little yeeting seems merciful. It probably doesn't have dreams yet. Anything that doesn’t know it's alive won’t miss being alive, I figure.”
“Dreams? Jax. Stop. I am going to keep you and this baby safe.”
“How can you? You can’t keep yourself safe.”
She doesn't say it like an insult. She says it as if it is simply a matter of fact I should probably already have been aware of.
Failing as king never really mattered to me before. The throne felt like an unwanted burden. I enjoyed rebelling against it by being bad at it. Now I face a failure I cannot stomach: failing as a father.
“I guess we are retaking the palace.”
"You say that as though it is simple.”
“It's not simple, no. But if anybody can do it, we can.”
She looks at her fist of blond locks. “Now having cut all your hair off seems premature.”
“Least of our worries, really, isn’t it.”
“Hm.”
Twelve
Rath
I am holding court, as befits my new station as king, or at least, the korabi sitting on the throne for the moment. Strange that I should find myself ruling from the same room in which I once thought I would die. Lyric enjoys snuggling on the throne with me, a position I happily allow her. There are many dirty looks being cast our way. My assumption of the throne is controversial, to say the least. I am not putting much stock in it. I know Fate can take it from me as easily as she delivered it to me.
“It was nice in the forest, but the lack of showers was rough," Lyric muses, swinging her legs over the edge of the arm, her back pressed against my shoulder. She is not showing proper respect for the throne, and I could not care any less. “I could get used to this place. Are we going to stop oppressing humans and free my people any time soon, or…” she lets the question hang, cheeky and serious at the same time, just like she is.
“Probably not all at once. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves.”
“I can’t sleep with a king who oppresses humans,” Lyric reminds me. “It would make me a hypocrite. And a tyrant.”
“Probably. Tyvian!” I call out to the jailer who has just made his appearance. His duties have expanded a great deal of late. He is my right-hand man, my first advisor, and of course, the royal jailer. “Any news on our fugitives?”
“We still have no leads on Krush or Jax,” Tyvian winks.
“Well, keep looking.” I’d wink back, but I am rather limited with my augmentations. I settle for blinking one light.
We are, of course, making a great show of hunting down the exiled king and his human accomplice, while having absolutely no intention of capturing either of them. For all Krush’s failings, he is perhaps the best korabi I know. He grew up merciful in a world of cruelty. He learned to love a vulnerable human. And he has been redeemed by her love in turn, much as I was. I bear him no ill will, even though he certainly tried to murder me most thoroughly. In the royal palace, we are all slaves to the impressions we must keep up. It is important to be seen to be all manner of awful monsters no matter what.
Speaking of monsters…
“Please! Let me go!”
The sound of a distressed human being dragged into the royal chambers makes Tyvian and I both turn and look. There is a woman being dragged in by Tusk. She is clutching at his furs with little in the way of success if she is trying to break free. Tusk has a firm grip on her and is sliding her across the royal floor like a human train in his wake.
“Wow,” Lyric breathes. “What is she wearing?”
Her hair is set in curls around which a colorful cloth has been wrapped. She is wearing a floral dress and an apron, and there is a bright, cheerful orange splash of red across her downturned lips.
It is obvious that this human female is not from Megaris. She is likely not of this world. If I were an educated korabi warrior, and I am, I’d say that she is from the planet Earth. The planet Tusk was very briefly exiled to. He did not stay exile for long, obviously.
“This is the assassin! The one which struck at Krush’s choosing ceremony.” Tusk makes the unlikely declaration with all the confidence of someone unaccustomed to being questioned.
The woman’s painted mouth opens wide in rejection of that statement. “I’m not an assassin. I’m a housewife!”
“She’s lying. She is an assassin from Earth,” Tusk insists.
“Do you have anything in the way of evidence, Tusk?”
“Is my word not evidence enough, sire?”