all the same. None of the numbers had changed. What was—?
There. The cross section of her brain. A small portion of it was redrawn to the side in greater detail: the portion that represented her pillars. They were not physical elements of her body, but metaphysical elements of her mind, her intelligence, her personality. Each blueprint had shown four pillars in her mind, balancing out like scales.
Intellect. Organics. The two human pillars.
Calculation. Reason. The two Automa pillars.
In this blueprint—only this one—there were five. Inside the Design of Crier’s mind was another little column drawn in deep-blue ink. A fifth pillar.
Passion, it was labeled.
Passion.
Crier, the daughter of the sovereign, had five pillars instead of four. It was unheard of. Everyone knew Automae were created with two human pillars and two Automa pillars. Crier had never imagined there could be one with three human pillars. And that was what Passion was, without a doubt: human.
The papers were shaking in her hands. No. Her hands were shaking. Suddenly paranoid, Crier glanced around to make sure she was truly alone in this corner of the gardens. What if someone sees?
What would happen if the wrong person—if any person—discovered that the heir to the sovereign of Rabu had been sabotaged by her own Midwife? What would happen to her? She shuddered, thinking of Kinok’s words back in the forest during the Hunt. They were disposed of. Would she be disposed of? Or, no, no no no, what if someone tried to use her against her father? This was perfect blackmail.
The heir, the sovereign’s daughter, a mistake. It would bring shame to her family. Worse, it could cause the political scandal of the century. People could call for Hesod to step down as sovereign. They could use Crier to threaten her father. Through him, they could gain power over the entire Red Council. Over all of Rabu—and more.
Crier was Flawed. She was broken.
The thought shook her deeply. All this time she’d been treated like the jewel of the sovereign’s estate, a glorious creation, but no. She was an abomination.
This was too much—this evil, sickening truth about herself, was too great to take in.
With nowhere to go, nowhere else to be alone to process this, she sank right down where she was, in the middle of the gardens, as the sun bled out behind the brush, and closed her eyes.
[the Barren Queen] desires what—a homunculus!—an alchemist’s creation!—a Devil!—she knows not what she asks of us, and she dares to offer such a ludicrous prize, dangling it before us like meat before a pack of starving wolves—she might as well offer the damn’d throne to the first man who brings her the ocean in a thimble.
I could be hanged for writing such things, but the Barren Queen knows not what she asks.
—FROM THE RECORDS OF GRAY ÖLING, HEAD MAKER, E. 900, Y. 7
4
It was late evening and Ayla had a break from the fields. She hadn’t been called back to the market in Kalla-den, thankfully, since last week. Instead of taking supper, like the other servants, she was using her fleeting moments of rest to practice. To hone. To train. She had to be ready, for when her time came.
Ready to take what she’d come for, what she’d waited years for.
Her muscles ached but her body craved release. She had to find somewhere private, somewhere hidden. And besides, she couldn’t sit next to Benjy for another night in a row. Though nearly a week had passed since they’d spoken to Rowan in Kalla-den, Benjy was still angry with Ayla. Truthfully, she didn’t blame him. She knew how badly he wanted to join Rowan in the South, to fight, to aid the revolution, and she’d convinced him to stay here and be useless.
Right now, Ayla suspected Rowan was preparing to pack her bags. Benjy could still go with her. But Ayla knew he wouldn’t.
Ayla was caught between relief that Benjy wasn’t in danger and self-loathing because of the relief. He was a liability; he was a weak spot in her armor.
She hated to think of him like that. But the last time Ayla had a weak spot, it had destroyed her. Her family’s death had left her not a person but a ghost, a ruined shell, a carcass. The parts that had survived would be tainted forever.
She didn’t want to see him hurt. And yet she knew: better to do what was right than to be kind.
It was a lesson she’d learned herself, when she was thirteen. She’d taken