Page 41 of To Dance with Death

Then, boldly, one true sapphire skids amid them all.

Maia lifts a gem-clad shoulder at the bewilderment cast her way, which I surmise is not so much disagreement as it is her audacity to admit it openly. But this was what I was hoping for—to find someone who might be willing to speak a truth. Someone I might question, who might not fully agree with Moranya’s edicts.

A weak link.

“Maia, you can’t be serious,” Dahlia says. “You know the discord it would cause. If everyone remembered their past lives and sought to overturn the echelons to be with former family…”

“Others would seek vengeance,” says Sorrell. “Past grudges, and all.”

“I thought the emotional attachment fades. If so, would reading one’s own codex make a difference?” I ask.

A beat of silence.

Then it’s Dahlia who says, “Of course it would. To read your own codex is to reestablish the connection with your former life. Imagine the chaos.”

Reestablish the connection? “What exactly does that mean?”

“No one really knows. It’s just what we’ve been told.”

I had been right to search the Abyssal, but not just for any book. If I could find Anton’s…

“She has taken choice out of the equation,” Maia is saying. “Not everyone would choose to remember. Perhaps it could be a ruling, only those with permission…”

An argument swiftly breaks out. It’s the point of the game, I realize. I wonder if they’ve little better to do with their time, if a debate makes them feel a part of something. Maia no longer attempts to justify her stance.

They’ve yet to realize I never cast a stone.

Sorrell and Rasmus are butting heads now, debating the merits of each echelon, the difference between the Exalted and the Dignified.

Now that I initiated such a discussion, the topic shifts todebating whether the Shadows should be allowed to earn the next echelon up—the Sustained—after a century of servitude, and so on. Unanimously, they decide against it.

I recall, then, that there was a Court of the Exalted before Anton, and I wonder if they are upset about the loss of it. Already I’ve noticed how many opposed the very notion of the appeals. Yet many seem to accept his presence here, or respect it at the very least. So many hang all over him, and I wonder if that’s why: an attempt at securing power.

I try not to look for him, yet I find my eyes pulled to his every so often without my permission. Like now, I see him pace to the balcony that faces the waterfall, clap another soul on his shoulder, and greet a girl in a silky, slinky stretch of yellow that reveals her every curve.

He laughs, and so does she.

His hand comes around her waist.

I suddenly can’t breathe.

Then my eyes track a dark silhouette at his shoulder, his rag uniform so at odds with the silk and glamour of this place.

Illian skirts the room, mostly in shadow. In his hand is a broom, and he stops before a bar where someone had dropped a tray of glasses. One by one, he picks up each shard, then sweeps up the remaining dust.

I wait for Anton to notice, wondering if he’s the reason Illian is here. Did he summon his brother, wishing to see him debased? He might not recall all that Illian did during the Gathering, but he would remember that Illian made multiple attempts on his life in his youth.

When Illian attempts to take his leave, Anton calls out, “You missed a piece.”

Illian’s expression is blank, wiped clean, as he turns back around. Anton leans a hip against the nearby bar, jerking his chin toward the floor, where Illian kneels once more to survey the area he just cleaned.

“There is not a single shard left,” Illian says, his head still bowed.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to keep looking,” Anton replies. “Crawling, I imagine, would give you a better vantage.”

Then he turns away, back toward a small congregation of souls.

I can’t deny how it feels to watch, and yet it’s not as satisfying as I’d imagined. While deserved, this sort of revenge is petty and small and not like the Anton I remember. I long more for justice—a punishment more fitting to Illian’s crimes.