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CHAPTER

Fifty-Eight

T HEN IT REALLY is down to me, Neema thought.

The news of the Visitor’s death had stunned her, as it had stunned everyone. Now that he was gone she realised that—deep down—she had been relying on him to win. The Visitor would kill Ruko, Cain would take the throne, and she would…

What? Go back to the library, and write her monograph? She had been deluding herself. The Raven had chosen her to save the world . Not Cain, not the Visitor. Her. It was time she accepted that.

The Raven had offered her the chance to stop Ruko on the fight platform, and she had refused. If she didn’t keep him from the throne, she would be to blame for everything that came next. And now she had caught a glimpse of the creature lurking inside of Cain, she couldn’t risk helping him, either. Emperor Cain was one thing. But the Fox, the actual Fox , ruling Orrun?

So Neema came to the reluctant conclusion that Sol—curse him—was right. The only way to stop Ruko, and save Orrun, save the world , was to do the unthinkable. She would have to take the throne for herself.

Of all the palaces, the Monkey palace was by far the most welcoming. Designed as a haven from the rigours of court life, its lodges blended into the surrounding woodland as if they had grown from the trees that held them. With its theatres, craft workshops, food stalls and taverns, the sixth palace was the closest thing the island had to a town square. It just happened that much of the square lay nestled up in the canopy.

The Monkey contingent had ordered the construction of a new lodge for the Festival. Tucked within the branches of an old yew tree, its platform overlooked the open-air theatre below. From here, the contenders would descend for the second part of the Monkey Trial. For now they waited, as the crowds streamed through the woods below to take their seats.

Neema watched them, hands gripping the wooden platform rail. The moon, almost full, was rising above the trees, silvering the rope walkways and ladders that connected the lodges together. Directly beneath her, servants fixed torches around the stage’s perimeter: two circles, forming an eternal eight.

She was alone out here, apart from Ruko. He was sitting at the far end of the platform, legs dangling over the edge, forehead pressed against the rail. The cost of his victory weighed upon on him, literally—he was physically bowed. Not just from his injuries—though he had certainly taken a battering. Something deeper—some inner crisis. She fought the instinct to go over to him. If she was going to win, she had to start behaving like a true contender.

She looked back through the door, to study the others. Her rivals. Cain was running through a sequence of acrobatic fight moves—a distraction technique. Tala, who preferred to keep her feet on solid ground, was huddled in the middle of the lodge, as far away from the windows as possible.

Shal, catching Neema’s eye, came out to join her. Despite the sling, he seemed the least damaged of them all. He smelled and looked good, his dark curls rubbed through with almond oil, his beard freshly trimmed. Square diamond studs in his ears. He turned his face to gaze up at the stars; the dazzling spread of constellations. “How do we compete with that?”

“Five points to Nature.”

He laughed, but kept his eyes on the stars.

Are we allies? Neema wondered. Is that how this works? She could imagine Shal as High Commander of Orrun, much more easily than she could imagine herself on the throne. But somehow she had to start believing it.

“Did you hear Benna escaped?” Shal said, then smiled at her surprise. “I recognised her the moment I saw her.” He tapped his finger next to his eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

His smile faded.

Yana. “Because she saved her life,” Neema said, softly.

Shal took a moment to collect himself. “Not just that. Those last days in the village… Benna was a light in the darkness. Whatever she wanted to do to me, to any of us,” a narrow glance, at Ruko, “I wasn’t about to stop her. We got off lightly, don’t you think? I mean look at us. The three of us. Look where we are. Not in spite of what we did, but because of it.”

“Like weeds on a grave,” Neema murmured. And then, because she was a scholar, “I should say that was Gaida’s line.” One should always name one’s sources.

They both fell silent. Shal slapped a mosquito.

“The theatre’s full,” Neema said, and felt a twinge of nerves. As well as the raised benches at ground level, there were further viewing platforms and galleries in the surrounding trees. Music wafted up—the emperor’s anthem, signalling his arrival.

“Ready?” Shal asked.

Neema pulled a face. Improvised performance : that had been the alarming note from Lord Clarion. As they took the stage, each contender would be given a theme to explore as they wished: through dance, song, poetry, oratory. This was Neema’s worst anxiety dream brought to life. All she had to do was inexplicably lose her trousers and the nightmare would be complete.

Above the stage, trapeze artists flew through the air, while jugglers tossed flaming torches below.

“She would have loved this,” Shal said. Yana. Always Yana.

They headed inside.

Ruko, forgotten in the dark, rose to his feet and looked down. “Yes,” he said softly. “She would.”

“All hail His Majesty, Emperor Bersun the Second!”

“See how Orrun is restored in his name!”

There was no room to kneel on the packed benches. People rose to their feet and cheered their emperor as if he were the first act of the evening.

He smiled and put a hand to his chest, to show that he was touched. “I shall be brief.”

Everyone laughed indulgently at the same old joke.

“I’ve heard the Monkey Trial referred to as the easy Trial. Well. Not for this Bear.” He held up a finger, and everyone laughed harder. Bersun had collected just one point from his Sixth Trial, back when he was competing for the crown. “I’ve come to believe it is the most important Trial of all. An emperor must be able to express himself clearly. Think creatively. Command attention.” He paused, to make his point. There was silence in the clearing.

“My friends, this has been a tough Festival in many ways. But it has also been fair, and open. The most important duty of any leader is to oversee his own peaceful succession. Tomorrow, Orrun will have a new, legitimate ruler. Tomorrow, I shall lay down my burdens,” he touched the iron band of his crown, “and be Brother Bersun once more. But tonight…” He smiled. “I am glad to spend my last evening as emperor with you. May the Eight bless you all.”

“And remain Hidden.”

The crowds were moved, many of them to tears. The emperor had become a regular visitor to the sixth palace in recent years—he was well loved here. They were still recovering when Lord Clarion—master of ceremonies—called the first contender to the stage. Cain.

Lord Clarion tipped over a sand-timer—another eternal eight, formed from the glass. Eight minutes. Then he went out into the benches, and encouraged an ancient Tiger courtier to select a scroll from a jewelled box. Perching his glasses on his nose, the Tiger unfurled the tiny scroll and read out the one-word subject in a frail voice. Lord Clarion repeated it for the benefit of the audience. “Respect.”

A spattering of laughter—not the ideal subject for a Fox. But Cain would use that to his favour. Easier to impress an audience when their expectations were low. Moving smoothly between the two stages, he made sure he caught the attention of every bench and platform as he spoke. “When I was fourteen months old, my mother sold me for a twist of opium. I’m sure you’ve heard this story. In fact…” He searched for Rivenna Glorren, seated with the Tiger contingent, “Her Grace the Tiger abbess was kind enough to remind me of it yesterday, while I was a guest at her palace. ‘I only value you as your mother did,’ she said.”

A stir along the benches; people shifting in their seats. The odd hiss, aimed towards the Tigers. It was deftly done, Neema thought, watching from the contenders’ bench below the stage. Monkeys would never insult a guest like that in their home.

“I must say,” Cain said, with a sad tilt of his head towards Ruko, “I don’t envy the Tiger contender his mentor. I was lucky, in comparison…”

And Neema sighed, because she knew what was coming. Madam Fessi, their old schoolteacher. The woman who had taken Cain in, and eventually adopted him.

Cain moved seamlessly back and forth between the two circles of the stage. His voice suited an open-air theatre, carrying up to the highest platforms without effort. His thick, Scrapper accent felt fresh to jaded ears. So bracingly authentic . “She could have taken a court position, or taught at the Raven monastery. But she chose to build a school in a dump like Scartown. I’m allowed to call it that, you’re not,” he said, to scattered laughter. “Madam Fessi was a Casinor, of the Venerant Casinors, but she didn’t act like she was better than us. She treated everyone she met the same way. With dignity and respect.”

Neema smiled to herself. Cain was painting Madam Fessi as a saint. In truth she’d had a sharp tongue and a short temper, but he was right—she did treat everyone alike.

“Madam Fessi died ten years ago in the Winter Riots. But I remember the lessons she taught me, and the example she set. When I am emperor,” a grin, at his own presumption, “I will treat all my subjects the same way: Venerant, Middling, Commoner, Scrapper. Because I believe that every life is of equal value, and every soul deserves respect.” He stressed the last word, bringing things back to his theme.

Applause rose along the benches, and up through the platforms. A few cheers, from certain pockets. Neema thought he’d won perhaps half the audience to his side. Others were more muted. She could see them silently calculating what such a message might mean for them and their families, in practical terms. Wider monastery reforms, more scrutiny around court hirings, tougher sentencing on corruption and bribery.

Cain knew this—he was watching the audience just as closely. Specifically the Monkey courtiers—the only ones with a vote. He wasn’t done yet—the sand in the hourglass was barely halfway through. As the applause died away, he called for a violin. Played a verse, then faltered. He rubbed a hand through his hair, as if frustrated with himself. “Forgive me. I have thought of something better.” Lifting the bow, he tried a new melody. “I Will Rise,” from Lady Harmony’s beloved opera Avila . The story of a disgraced courtier forced to enter the House of Mist and Shadows, who earns the respect of the Grey Penitents and clears her name—only to die from marsh fever in the final act. This was her death song, a haunting piece that was both mournful and uplifting. People were in tears before he’d finished the first verse.

“This will be hard to follow,” someone said behind Neema. They sounded disappointed.

As the last note faded to silence, Cain pulled his master stroke. Sweeping his arm, he directed the applause towards Lady Harmony, seated on her private platform in the trees. “Respect, to our greatest living composer,” he called up.

The whole theatre got to its feet, sending waves of love and admiration through the clearing. Was it for Lady Harmony, or Cain? It didn’t matter. This was the moment people would remember, and vote for. And for those unsettled by his earlier comments, a reassessment was underway. His appreciation of Lady Harmony—his deference towards her—had appeased some, at least.

Cain gave a final Fox salute and left the stage as the last grains of sand dropped through the hourglass.

“If that was improvised, I’m a catfish,” Tala muttered, as she passed him.

“May the Monkey bless you and remain Hidden,” Cain replied, earning himself a sharp punch in the arm. Summoning the Monkey before a performance was considered bad luck. Tala was channelling the bad luck back to him.

Lord Clarion encouraged another member of the audience to select a scroll from the jewelled box.

“Joy,” they called out, and Tala began. She would teach the audience a harvest song, she said, on the principle that singing together was a naturally joyful experience.

Cain’s performance had distracted Neema from her nerves, but now they were back. It didn’t help that she was set to go last.

She needed air, and space. Lurching to her feet, she walked blindly from the theatre into the woods beyond, only stopping when the singing faded. Her heart slowed as she breathed in the night. Things were softer here, and fresher. The turn of the sea, the rustle of night animals in the undergrowth. The distant hoot of a barn owl. She sat down beneath an oak tree, and tried to soak up its strength. She would need it, if she was going to make it up on to that stage.

And she had to. She had to. Not just perform with confidence, but somehow do better than Cain and Ruko. She thought of Madam Fessi, how little time she’d had for Neema’s stage fright. Just get up there and try—what’s the worst that could happen?

Her teacher’s rough impatience hadn’t worked—so what would? The emperor was right— fuck him— if she was serious about taking the throne, she would need to learn how to command an audience.

She thought of something Ruko had observed, the night of the opening ceremony, as the high officials paraded into the banqueting hall. You are more comfortable on the periphery. He was right, she was. And much as it pained her to admit it, she couldn’t save the world tucked away in the library stacks.

She caught a familiar oiled scent in the air. Pepper, liquorice, musk.

“Sol.”

He was perched in the oak tree, a few feet above her head. Oh, hello, Neema. He pecked indifferently at the branch he was sitting on.

“What are you doing here?”

I am the Solitary Raven. I can be wherever I like. He tugged out a few leaves and scattered them on her head.

She got to her feet, brushing the leaves from her hair before addressing him. “So first of all—if you hurt Cain again, I will pluck out your feathers one by one, and stuff them down your throat.”

I am saving the world, Neema. I make no apologies. You will thank me when you are perched upon the throne, victorious. Sol, you will say, greatest of all fragments. How wrong I was to doubt your magnificence—

“I need your help.”

Of course, that is inevitable, you are a tiny meat bag and I—

“Please.”

That stopped him. No one had ever said please to the Solitary Raven. This was something of an existential incident. A weird, gurgling noise spilled from his throat. Surprise—that must be it. He was surprised. Not happy, not contented. No, no. Surprised.

How may I assist you, Neema?

She had missed most of Shal’s performance—a martial display set to drums, meant to represent Perseverance. By the time she took her seat again, he was leaving the stage to polite applause. Too rehearsed, too self-contained and too short. The sand was still running through the timer.

Ruko rose from his seat.

“ There’s our emperor-in-waiting,” the man behind Neema said. “You can’t learn that—it’s in the blood.”

A Fox courtier pulled a scroll from the jewelled box and read out the next subject: Peace.

Ruko strode to the centre of the stage and waited for silence. This was the first time most people had heard him speak at any length. What he said was not as interesting as what he projected. Confidence. Charisma. An aura of power. He spoke, and people listened. Neema hated to admit it, but the man behind her was right—he sounded like an emperor-in-waiting.

He ended by reciting the final verses of “The Truce” by Seeker Flint. 13 An obvious choice. When he was done he said, into the dead silence, “That is all I wish to say,” and strode back to his seat.

The theatre was divided. He had shown no creative flair. Revealed nothing of himself. Some were disappointed. Others were pleased. They did not want revelation, they wanted assurance. Certainty. Stability.

“Such natural authority,” the man said, behind Neema. She was beginning to suspect he’d been planted there.

Lord Clarion returned to the stage, still clapping. “Wonderful. Masterful! Thank you, Contender Valit. And our thanks to all the contenders for their inspiring performances. The Monkey has blessed us tonight with its presence. And now, we shall pause for the vote…”

He stopped, frowning as if confused. People were calling to him. Someone scuttled on to the stage and whispered in his ear. Clarion put a perfectly manicured hand to his mouth. “Contender Kraa, my deepest apologies. How could I forget you?” He waved her to the stage with a patronising smile, as if she were a child at a recital.

Neema had no doubt this was a deliberate slight. Half the audience was squirming with embarrassment, the other half laughing behind their hands.

To walk up into that?

No.

Neema thought of Yasila in her suite, owning the sea and the sky. She thought of Ruko, waiting for silence. Perhaps the man behind her was right—perhaps it did come naturally to some people. Didn’t mean it couldn’t be learned.

She folded her hands in her lap, and looked to the mid distance.

The crowd was growing restless. Lord Clarion beckoned her again.

Neema remained where she was, head high. And then she beckoned him .

The richest man in the empire was not used to being summoned. He did not like it.

She waited, as his face turned red.

Lord Clarion blinked first. Crossing down to the front row, he said, “Is there a problem—”

“A formal apology, Lord Clarion,” she said, without looking at him. “Before I rise.”

Lord Clarion’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. And then he hurried back to the stage. “Contender Kraa, on behalf of the Festival committee, I apologise unreservedly for any offence you may have felt…”

“Your contingent should have spoken for you,” Ruko said, in her ear.

“I am my own contingent,” Neema replied.

“… my honour to invite the Raven contender to the stage,” Lord Clarion concluded.

Neema rose.

As she walked, she breathed through her fear, and used it. She thought of the vision Sol had shown her in the mirror. The amethyst crown. That swell of power. She took that reflection, and became it. And though she could not see it, more strands of indigo and blue formed within her tight black curls.

Lord Clarion had left the stage. She walked up the steps, and claimed it.

The audience sat in tense silence as the timer was set, the jewelled box was opened. “Friendship,” someone called out.

Some laughter, less than before.

Neema was certain that the subject had been chosen to mock her. Just as Clarion had “forgotten her” on purpose.

The grains of sand fell through the timer. The crowd waited.

Neema began.

“Gaida Rack was not my friend.”

A buzz, as she said Gaida’s name.

“We had no time for each other in life. But in death, I have come to respect her passion. Her courage. Her persistence. Let us take a moment to remember her, in silence.”

And they did fall silent—a thousand people in a clearing. The energy shifted into something profound and ancient. The warm night enclosed them. The moon hanging bright. The scent of the woods. The distant turn of the sea.

No one else had done this. No one had used the night.

She began to hum, softly. The audience could hear her—if they stayed silent. If they leaned in. “Come to the Mountain.” The ancient version of the melody tugged at their hearts, pulled them to her. They were transfixed, eyes following her as she moved to the centre of the stage.

On his platform in the trees, the emperor frowned to himself.

Neema raised her arms. She didn’t sing the words, she chanted them like a summoning spell.

“Fly to your empress, sacred Raven

Over forest, over plain

Greet your friend, beloved Guardian,

Give your blessing to her reign.”

With her mind, she reached for Sol. He was already on his way.

We all were.

On the benches, on the platforms, people called the familiar response. “And remain Hidden!” Too late. Their words were lost to the heavy beat of wings.

Fragments wheeled and dived over the stage, and perched on branches around the theatre. A company of ravens, a chorus with only one line.

Kraa! Kraa!

Sol landed neatly on Neema’s shoulder, and gave a piercing cry of his own.

Kraa!

The sound reverberated across the stage and through the benches. It rustled the leaves in the trees. Fragments lifted up into the air, circling low and crying her name again and again. And even those in the audience who did not believe, found themselves convinced that the Raven was here among them. We basked in their wonder, swirling in a dark flurry of wing and claw and beak, calling to one another, and to the woman on the stage, our contender. Our friend. She raised her arms and we loved her, for making us the centre of everything.

And then we were gone.

Only Sol remained, perched on Neema’s shoulder. In the moonlight, in the torchlight, her black curls gleamed with their new, subtle strands of indigo and rich, night blue.

The clearing was silent, dropped into a state of stunned awe.

No one was sure what they had just witnessed, but it had been… magnificent.

Neema held herself for another beat, a half-smile on her lips. And then she swept from the stage with Sol still perched on her shoulder. Empress-in-waiting.

Footnote

13 . Self-torturing twelfth-century Monkey poet and philosopher, famous for his musings on the moral value of self-governance. Died in a bar brawl, 1133. In “The Truce,” Flint’s best-known poem, the Monkey visits two generals on the eve of battle, and swaps their spirits. When they wake in each other’s bodies, they realise that unless they make peace, they will be forced to lead their enemy’s army into battle against their own.