Page 77 of Last of Her Name

I try to focus on Riyan for now.

Pol appears and slides into our row, taking the seat between Damai and me. I stiffen, conscious of every inch of space between us.

“Stacia. Did you sleep well?”

I scowl. “You’ve never asked me that question before. Don’t start now.”

“Just trying to be nice.”

“Don’t start that, either. Things are weird enough.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies softly, and my heart squeezes at the flash of pain in his eyes.

He turns to greet Damai. The two start laughing over something she says. I set my jaw and look the other way.

I’ve never felt like this around him before—shy, awkward, my heart fluttering like a startled butterfly. Deep down, I know that now we can never go back to the way things were. So where does that leave us?

Stars blast you, Appollo Androsthenes.Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut? Why can’t he feel for Clio the way she feels for him? And why can’t I stop imagining the weight of his hands on me and the warmth of his breath on my neck?

The Lord Tensor enters, and the crowd falls quiet. He wears black robes today, his expression solemn as he slowly proceeds toward the center of the chamber. Twelve tensors follow behind him. Their faces are lined, and the hair of the unshaven ones is silver. Solemnly they spread into a semicircle, each cupping in their hands a small device that looks like a metal rosebud. Once they’re in position, they wait in silence.

“What’s happening, Damai?” I ask.

She slides me a cool look. “They are the judges, bearers of the Legacy Stones, our most precious heirlooms.”

“Look … I’m sorry this happening. I wish—”

“This is bad enough without having to discuss it withyou.”

Getting the hint, I sink back into my seat and press my lips together.

A deafening sound swells around us. A man is blowing into a massive horn that winds around the walls and under the benches, incorporated into the very architecture. It sounds like the dinner horn, but deeper and more ominous. The noise is so loud my bones seem to rattle. It fills the cavity of my chest and reverberates in my teeth.

My hand inches reflexively toward Pol’s, but then I catch myself and pull it back.

A door across the room opens, and in walks Riyan, flanked by six tensors. Though his hands aren’t bound, it still seems like they’re treating him like a prisoner. Anger unfurls in my chest, but I know I can’t interfere. His people’s customs aren’t mine to challenge, and he chose to be here. Whatever happens, I’m only a witness. So though it chafes every instinct in my body, I stay still and harden my jaw.

Riyan and the other tensors arrange themselves before the judges. He keeps his head high, expression calm. He bows to his father and the judges, taking his time. I wonder how he can look so serene in the face of such injustice. If I were him, I’d be scorching the walls with my cursing and rage.

“Riyan Ayedi, Son of Tyrrha,” says one of the judges, a hunched woman with long white hair. “Charges have been made against you. We will hear them now. Will you accept our judgment?”

Riyan bows his head. “I accept.”

One of the tensors—Jorian, of course—begins listing Riyan’s litany of supposed offenses. He does so with flourish, making the whole thing a performance.

“… exposing tensor secrets to uninitiated outsiders, consorting with radical insurgents, stealing the Lord Tensor’s own ship, demonstrating an egregious lack of self-control …”

To hear him speak, you would think Riyan was an enemy to all humanity and a threat to galactic order.

I roll my eyes and sink deeper into my seat, steaming. Riyan remains calm—but I notice a vein in his temple start to pulse a bit.

Perhaps he’s human after all.

“Riyan Ayedi,” says the gray-haired woman, “how do you answer the charges laid against you?”

“I refute none of them,” Riyan replies. “I stole a ship that belonged to the Lord Tensor. I crossed the Diamin Wall. I risked exposing our secrets to our enemies. I broke our laws, and I will face judgment for it.”

Damai gives a little groan and sinks deeper into her seat, her fingers pressed to her forehead.