Page 96 of Last of Her Name
My mother and my father, Pol and Spiros, everyone in the vineyard and in town.
They knew.
Theyhadto have known. And either they didn’t tell me or they gave up trying. My mind feels full of gaps that I never knew were there, because I was always looking from the wrong perspective. But now I can’t help but see that my memory is a tangle of incongruent parts, the real and the unreal all entwined until I don’t even know where to begin sorting them.
Finally, the string breaks from the carpet. I wind it slowly around my finger, around and around and around, watching it cut into my skin until the tip of my finger turns purple.
Alexei Volkov said that for Anya to live, Stacia Androva had to die.
But Stacia Androva is already dead.
I still have my string the next morning, when they come to take me to Volkov. The night passed in a haze. I’m not sure if I slept or if I simply stared at the wall for hours on end. In either case, I’m lost in a fugue as I rise and dress. Breakfast is laid out—eggs, tea, fruit—but it looks as appetizing as sand. I leave it on the tray.
As I follow Natalya through the Rezidencia’s white hallways, I twist and untwist the string, feeling like it’s the only thing tethering me to sanity. If it breaks, I am lost.
These are my first steps into a universe without Clio. It’s like walking into an alternate reality, a world that doesn’t feel real. I’m just a hologram floating along, empty light flickering over the walls. My body is here, but my heart is a thousand light-years distant.
Instead of the lab, I’m brought to a large, round room encased by arching diamantglass windows. I know what this place is, not just because I’ve been here before in Zhar’s holo but because I’ve seen it in history documentaries so many times. It’s perhaps the most famous room in the galaxy—the imperial throne room.
Or as it was known in the Empire’s days, the Solariat.
The throne is still in place, which surprises me. I would have thought it would be the first to go when the new regime moved in. Maybe they keep it as a trophy. Maybe Volkov likes to sit in it and play emperor. Shaped like a crescent moon, the throne is fifteen feet tall and made of mirrored black stone, polished to a shine. The upper arc curves over the seat below, and from its tip hangs a round glass sphere. Inside it flashes a melon-sized Prism, one of the largest I’ve ever seen. It must power the whole of the Rezidencia.
The rest of the room is open floor, smooth glass tiles patterned with spheres and lines. It seems every material in this room was selected to mirror the throne and its occupant. Though these days, the great seat is empty.
Volkov waits for me along with the whole of the Committee. Their backs are turned to the door, but when I enter with my guards, heads swivel. They’re not wearing their formal robes today but fancy gowns and suits, as if they’re all having a party later. The rings on the Head of Commerce’s fingers alone could probably rebuild Afka. They flash as she raises a glass of white wine to her lips, her blue eyes scanning me head to toe. Beside her, the Head of Defense leans in to whisper in her ear, eliciting a smirk from her lips. The others watch me with a blend of curiosity and skepticism, as if I am a pet brought in to perform. Only the Head of Press and Public Affairs gives me a smile—but that’s probably just reflexive, given how much time she spends putting on a friendly face for her newscasts. I still can’t remember her name.
I’m dressed up today—a filmy black gown with a train, long sleeves, bare shoulders and collarbone. Crystals have been embroidered onto it, trickling like diamond rain from the bodice to the hem. The only thing about me that feels even remotely right is my multicuff, which I now twist back and forth until my wrist begins to chafe.
The moment I saw the dress laid across my bed this morning, I knew something was up.
I just couldn’t find it in myself to care.
As I walk across that shining floor in that shining gown, I feel hollow as the night, a mechanical, emotionless void. It’s like my heart is beating but no blood pumps through it.
“Anya,” Volkov murmurs, his eyes sweeping over me. “You look like an empress.”
He takes my hand and escorts me to the front of the room, the others parting for us.
A week ago, I would have felt sickened to be at the center of the entire Committee’s attention. Now I just want to lie down and sleep. I’ve never felt so weary. The people in front of me seem no more than ghosts. Maybe, like Clio, they too aren’t real. Maybe all of this is one endless dream manufactured by my broken mind. I can trust nothing anymore, least of all myself.
“Today,” says Volkov, his voice is raised for the benefit of everyone in the Solariat, “we will see the Firebird step into her birthright.”
He’s unusually confident for someone with no more answers about the Firebird than I have. But his eyes are bright, his face flushed.
I feel a tingle of unease down my arms.
“This had better not be a waste of our time,” calls out the Head of Commerce, and a few other Committee members nod in agreement. “Really, Volkov, is all this ceremony necessary?”
“Why do we need to be here, anyway?” asks Defense. “I’ve got a full-blown rebellion to handle on Amethyne. Couldn’t this have been relayed by holo?”
“Kostya, my friend.” Volkov’s eyes flick to the man, betraying a flash of irritation. “After today, the rebellion won’t matter. All our jobs will be a great deal easier.”
“Ifthis Firebird is what you claim it is,” says Commerce stiffly.
The direktor’s lips press thin. “Observe, if you please.”
He waves a hand, and the doors of the Solariat swing open. A row of vityazes march in, three by three. They walk through the center of the Committee and spread before Volkov and me. I watch disinterestedly; I’ve passed so many Red Knights since arriving at the palace, it’s hardly news to see a few more.