Ruins

warned against? She felt herself starting to slow down, to vanish, and so she paced back and forth, determined not to let herself disappear again. She could not let this habit master her.

Umbo went down the stairs to look for Loaf and Rigg and Vadesh. But Olivenko stayed with her.

“Why don’t you go, too?” she asked.

“Loaf can handle anything that comes up,” said Olivenko. “I don’t like the idea of any of us being alone. So I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Do what you want.” She sounded surly, though she hadn’t meant to.

“I always do,” said Olivenko, sounding amused.

“You think I’m funny?” asked Param.

“No, I think I’m funny,” said Olivenko. “I gallantly stay behind to protect you—but of all the people in our group, you’re the one who least needs my protection. I’m not good for much, am I? I’m not half the soldier Loaf is, and I can’t fiddle with time the way you others can. Maybe I’m along to write the history afterward. Or perhaps I’ll be the one who dies, so that you can be warned that danger has arrived. That’s how it works in stories—there’s one who isn’t really needful to the tale, and so he’s the one who gets killed first. Usually he’s forgotten; nobody even mentions him at the end.”

“That’s bleak,” said Param. But she knew what he meant. She had heard many such tales, growing up. The one who can die and not be missed. She had never thought of that. Was it her role, after all? Mother thought so.

But no. Sissaminka would be missed. Her absence would be noted. She was not one who could die without repercussions. Mother would see. She had put too much trust in General Citizen. And when word got out that Param was gone, everyone would be sure Mother and General Citizen had killed her. There would be outrage. There would be rebellion, vengeance, justice.

“You look very fierce,” said Olivenko.

“Thinking of Mother,” said Param.

“It must have been devastating,” said Olivenko, “to have her turn on you.”

“I always knew what she was,” said Param. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.” And then, quite suddenly, she found herself crying. “I don’t know why I—please don’t touch me—it’s just that I—”

“It’s all right,” said Olivenko. “You’ve been very calm through everything. You’re entitled to unwind a little now.”

“But there’s still danger, there’s still . . .”

Olivenko said nothing.

Param felt herself swaying. She put out a hand and found his arm, leaned on him. In a moment she found that he had led her to a place where they could sit on a part of one of the machines.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m glad.”

She faced him then, startled, prepared to be angry.

“Glad that you didn’t disappear,” said Olivenko. “Glad that you trusted me enough to stay.”

Param shook her head. “I can’t speed up time when I’m crying. Or slow myself down, or whatever it is I do. That’s why I learned not to let myself cry or scream. Instead I vanish. Only I’m trying not to. Trying not to let it be a habit.”

“You want to do it only when you decide,” said Olivenko.

“Yes,” said Param.

“You’re not crying now,” said Olivenko. “But you’re still angry with your mother.”

“Angry at myself for letting her take me by surprise,” said Param.

“She’s your mother. Of course her plotting against you took you by surprise.”

“She’s not my mother, she’s Hagia Sessamin. She does things for royal reasons, not personal sentimentality.”

“That’s the lie she tells herself to excuse her crimes,” said Olivenko. “You can believe her if you want, but I don’t. I think she acts only for personal reasons, and never once thinks of the kingdom.”

Param felt her anger flare up, but stopped herself from speaking sharply. How could she defend her mother after what the woman had done to her?

“It’s like your father,” said Olivenko. “The best man I ever knew. He said that he was pursuing a way through the Wall for the benefit of the whole kingdom. He talked about how the opening of the border would free everyone, widen the world. But it was all very vague. What he really wanted was to find some reason to exist.”

“He was Sissamik,” said Param. “That’s a reason to exist.”

“It’s an office. A title. He told me once—just once, mind you—that he was a mere decoration on the costume of a deposed queen. An accessory, like shoes, like a hat. If his wife ruled, he would still have no power; since she did not, he was worse than useless.”

“He was wonderful,” said Param. “He was the only one who treated me like . . .”

“Like a daughter.”

“Like a little girl,” said Param. “But yes, like a daughter.”

“He found you fascinating. ‘She’ll be Sessamin someday, after her mother, and if she has power she’ll have the power to be a monster if she wants, like her great-grandmother, the boy-killer.’ ”

“He said that?”

“It wasn’t an insult—it was one of her self-chosen titles. She killed all her male relatives so that no man could rival her daughter for the Tent of Light. She chose Knosso to be your mother’s consort, and left strict instructions that he was to be killed after he fathered two daughters.”

“Two?”

“Just in case,” said Olivenko. “Your mother bore Rigg instead, and then Knosso never quite managed to sire another child on her. So he never found out whether someone would have carried out old Aptica Sessamin’s command. There had been a revolution in the meantime, but that didn’t mean some old royalist wouldn’t try to fulfill the old lady’s wish.”

“He must have talked very candidly with you.”

“More like he forgot I was there, and talked to himself. He wanted to do something great. Maybe he did—but then he died, so he didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He passed through the Wall, and then drowned. Was there a moment there in which he said, ‘I did it!’ and savored his triumph? Or was it all just the hands of the monsters from the sea, dragging him down?”

“I thought you said he was unconscious.”

“That’s what the learned doctors declared, but I suspect it was only to console your mother. I think he was struggling. I think he was awake.”

“How awful.”

“Awful for a few moments, and then he was dead. The cruelest means of dying still ends the same. With release.”

“Release,” said Param. “It sounds pleasant.”

“And yet I don’t want to do it,” said Olivenko. “Not now, not ever. Miserable as I sometimes am in this life, I like being alive.” He held up his hands. “I’m used to having these fingers do my bidding. I don’t even have to ask them. Before I even think of what I want, before I could put my wishes into words, they’re already obeying me. My feet, too. My eyes open when I want to see, and close when I want to sleep. Such obedient servants. I’d miss them.”

“So you think some part of you will persist after death?”

“If not, I won’t know it,” said Olivenko. “And if so, then I’ll miss my hands and feet and eyes and also lunch. I’ll miss food. And sleep. And waking up.”

“Maybe death is better.”

“Not according to the advertisements.”

“What advertisements?”

“You see? If it were better, there’d be advertisements.”

“Why bother to advertise, since everyone’s going to do it anyway?”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Olivenko ruefully.