A Silk Girl…
Turin leans over the tray, inspecting the bodies. Uncertainty builds inside my gut, too many questions firing at once, churning my blood.
Why is the king meeting with Endigos?
To what end?
Turin finally notices the woman at the bottom of the heavy stack of flesh and reaches for her arm. He inspects the tattoo. Showing no sign of emotion, as is the way of a king, he drops the arm and returns to the tank.
I frown at the truck.
“Boy?” Kong’s tone is deep with warning.
I sit back and stare blankly at him. “We knew about the raid.” My mind swims with thoughts. “Maybe even organised it. For her? Who was she?” It is a statement, but still implores an answer.
He deadpans. “I don’t get involved.”
“Or was it for the babies?”
“I don’t get involved in politics, boy. You’ll know soon enough, I am sure. Your father wanted you to see or else you wouldn’t be here. Must admit, one hell of a lesson for your first campaign as the heir.”
Chapter Two
Rome
Vows of a king:
To be a king is to suffer alone under the burden of decisions and the weight of necessary evils and truths.
To enter The Estate, we travel the length of The Neck, a windy, thin stretch of land flanked by cliffs and lapped by rough seas.
It is the only way in and out. For this reason, The Estate is the safest place in The Cradle.
The tank roars forward between soaring limestone walls. Hundreds of Common and Xin De are on the streets today to mark my arrival, but more likely to celebrate my sister. It is not just my reveal as the heir—my little sister is taking her place as the future Queen of The Cradle.
Trade residents crowd the entrance. Large Martials monitor the gathering; Common men and women from other Trades dress in their most elegant clothes, eager to shake Tuscany’s hand; small boys blush at her beauty; tiny girls raise flowers in offering to their queen; men enjoy a day off from their Purpose; women smile.
I grow bored of looking at them, too many to take in, so I slump back into the tank as we stop at the foot of the stairwell to the piazza.
I climb out, overdue for a moment of sanctuary and truth, alone with my sister. I smile when I see her.
Tuscany is standing on the stone steps in a white gown. Stunning. Skin like mine, tanned, but unlike mine, hers is flawless and smooth. And her hair, only a few shades darker than her skin, falls over her chest and to the dip at her back.
She looks like a goddess.
In this moment, I understand. Understand why the Common and Xin De alike will fall in love with her. The idea of her is a conditioned response. Someone to worship. She is their future mother. The mother of The Cradle. Pure. Elegant. Feminine. It’s a spectacle they willingly soak in.
I frown and turn to watch the Guards, the Xin De men, and the crowds of Common also staring. My muscles twitch. I don’t care for the kind of attention she has—she is only ten.
They look at her as though they— The Cradle and all its people—own her. All of her.
All the parts inside and out.
Trying to hide the darkness stirring in my stomach, I walk to my sister and see her face light up as it always does whenever she notices me.
Her smile helps…
“Rome!” She darts down the steps to greet me, her hair is a pretty golden-brown river trailing behind her. She is sheer sunlight in this hazy land.
We knew we were related before they told us. Tuscany bothered me all through my childhood. Only a sister could be that annoying and adorable at once. And, of course, the eagles like her as much as I do, although everyone likes Tuscany.
The product of a Common Silk Girl, my half-sister is tiny and sweet to behold. I suspect she was chosen from my other siblings to be queen due to her relatable physique—so the Common will find comfort in her.
Fear in me.
Comfort in her.
The king and queen.
“It’s only been a week,” I dismiss, while every part of me softens to not cut her purity to pieces. Even at this age, I feel hard and sharp, like a well-carved blade. Not gentle, not kind, like her.
“And you have been with Turin. I knew you were my brother. I knew it all along.” She wraps her arms around my middle, and we walk half-embraced up the steps. “Will you tell me everything you saw? The Red Decline. The dessert. The mill farms. Oh, how I dream of seeing the endless forest of sky-scraping windmills.”
I nod curtly.
I am not ready to lie.
I feel Turin and the Guards close behind me. Cairo, too. Their presence is a torch at my back, the heat forcing my arms to tighten around my sister for reasons I can’t explain.
In the piazza, we are welcomed by Turin’s Collective and their Common. Women flock to see Tuscany, praising her beauty and offering her sacred heirlooms—gifts, flowers, and fine jewellery.
Children cuddle her legs.
I step aside and watch her bathe in the fuss and adoration. She deserved it. I want it for her. She vows to love The Cradle, to lay with no man and to bear no children so no individual is ever favoured by her. For this, she deserves the adoration for the life-long sacrifice she will make for her Meaningful Purpose.
I watch on as a woman gifts her a ghastly diamond ring. But Tuscany wears a face of pure appreciation and takes it, sliding it on her finger as if she cannot wait to display it. “Thank you. Yes, I will wear it for you.”
I laugh, and she flicks me a playful frown that warms my cruel heart. I am smiling at her. I only smile for her; she is the only person I love.
She seems to have fun.
What young girl wouldn’t have?
I try to relax, but a haunting presence stirs around me.
On the far side of the piazza, eating from the banquet table, are six of the fourteen born from Turin’s Collective in the same decade as me; boys who want to be the heir, and the girls who dream of being queen.
Only now do they know who they bow to. The Cradle will be mine one day. And I will choose my Collective, the lords who govern The Trade lands, from them.
I already know who I will choose: Bled, Darwin, Medan, and my half-brother Turin Two. The rest will be given Meaningful Purpose as lords and ladies in minor towers across The Mainland if they are deemed worthy. Or sent to warden other Trades, if they are not. If they irritate me.
But Tuscany, she will be queen soon.
She is a mere ten years old but Turin’s sister—the late queen—died this past summer. Everyone has been waiting for a new goddess to worship.
And worship her they will.
“She’ll need you,” Kong says, joining my side and standing to watch the exuberant scene as I am. I don’t know what he means. She will always have me.
His words unsettle me.
I turn from my sister, but he is walking away, past a Common girl with her face painted in all gold, disappearing between double doors toward his wing.
As we move through the night, the Missing Moon surely perched high, my sister grows lethargic from canapes—sweets with every kind of chocolate imaginable.
I grow bored of all but her.