Page 63 of Last of Her Name

“Yes, well.” I shrug. “We’re a little short onelders, so I’ll have to do. If … if you want me to. I know it’s sort of sacred and there are a lot of rules that I don’t know about, but I do know the basics and—”

He places his hands over mine, silencing me. I meet his gaze.

“I want you to do it.”

Feeling a nervous twinge in my gut, I set up the rest of the ceremony—holocandles burning in a circle around us, cast by tabletkas I set around. Not exactly the traditional burning tallow from the fat of a snaptooth, but they’re better than nothing. Then I dim the cabin lights, to simulate night. The Trying rite is supposed to be done precisely between sunset and dawn. I have no idea what time it is on Amethyne right now, but in space, it’s always night, so I figure the sacred aeyla laws aren’t beingtooviolated.

Riyan and Mara slip away into the rear cabins. The rite is supposed to be done in private between the elder and the new aeyla warrior.

Pol kneels in front of me, which feels weird enough, but then he fixes his gaze on mine with such intensity that I almost forget what I’m supposed to be doing. Stars, he’s even handsomer than he was before, the new-and-improved Pol. Pol 2.0.

“Okay,” I mutter, breaking my eyes away and looking down at the tray of makeshift paints. I’ve read about Tryings enough to know the gist of the ceremony, but I hope I don’t screw it up. He only gets one of these during his life. I don’t want to be the one to ruin it.

I dip two fingers in the red paint and raise them to Pol’s face. His body is rigid, his brow still damp with sweat. Stars, he’s really taking this seriously.

“Son of Amethyne,” I murmur, “where is your past?”

“I carry it in my veins: the blood of my ancestors.”

I paint two red stripes down his forehead. Then I dip into the blue paint. Pol’s eyes don’t waver from my face.

“Son of Amethyne, where is your present?”

“I carry it in my lungs: the breath of this moment.”

Two blue crescents on his cheekbones. He doesn’t flinch as my fingers brush his skin, leaving azure trails.

Next is the green paint.

“Son of Amethyne, where is your future?”

He bows his head, his jaw hardening. “I carry it in my hands: the soil of Mithraya, to be tended, guarded, honored.”

He uses the old word for Amethyne, which was the planet’s true name before the Alexandrians annexed it to their empire. The aeyla still use it in their sacred ceremonies. His palms turn up, and I slowly print five green dots on each.

“We’ll never go back to how things were, will we?” he whispers, pressing his fingers to the dots. “Amethyne is behind us for good. Even if we go back there, it won’t be the same.”

“For years I dreamed of leaving Afka. Now all I want is to go home.” Raising my eyes back to his, I add, “This will sound selfish, but … I’m glad you’re here, Pol. I’m glad I’m not alone.”

His eyes don’t flinch as he replies, “I’m sorry I took you to Zhar. I should never have been so blind and stubborn. Can I even dare to ask for forgiveness?”

“You saved my life.” I dip my fingers into water, the green paint washing away. “On Amethyne and every day since, you’ve been there for me. You’ve lost so much on my account, and I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks.”

“You don’t need forgiveness.”

The last part of the rite means dipping my fingers in the violet paint and tracing it over his heart. I wait as he pulls off his robe, until he’s kneeling in nothing but a loose pair of trousers that hang low on his hips. The bandage over his chest is fresh; I changed it several times throughout his Trying, when his thrashing caused it to bleed even more. But already the wound is beginning to close. The skin around it is healthier, thanks to the Trying boosting his growth hormones. He isn’t fully recovered, but looking at him now, I know he will pull through.

“Son of Amethyne,” I whisper, kneeling so we are level, “where is your purpose?”

“I carry it in my heart: to serve and protect Anya Leonova, the last true empress.”

My hand freezes between us, violet paint running down my wrist.

“That’s not how the ceremony goes,” I whisper.

“It’s howminegoes.” He takes my hand, bringing my paint-dipped fingers closer to him. “Please, Stacia.”