CAMREON: It’s what’s best for the country, Raik. And for the both of us. You never wanted to rule.
RAIK: And did you think that meant I wanted to watch you do it?
RAIK takes another step toward him, raising the pen.
Who am I, if I’m not the king?
CAMREON: You’re my brother.
RAIK: Not anymore. Not after you abandoned me.
CAMREON’s face twists.
CAMREON: I thought you were dead. It was so dark, there was blood everywhere—
RAIK: Not in the cave!
His shout echoes in the room, startling CAMREON into silence.
When we were children. After La Victoire. My whole life! While you were out becoming the Tiger, and the Aquitans made me into this.
He grips his white shirt—an Aquitan shirt—then flings his hand around the room, and all the imported treasures there.
Their puppet. The Boy King.
RAIK’s lip curls, and he gestures to CAMREON’s silk dress.
Do you know what it feels like for the whole country to think you’re a better man than me?
CAMREON’s eyes go wide, but before he can respond, RAIK lunges, pen in hand. CAM catches him by the wrist. The two grapple, but RAIK is taller, stronger. Driving CAMREON back against the wall, RAIK’s arm shakes as he presses the pen ever closer, till the brass nib is inches from the Tiger’s face.
But TIA scrambles to her feet, grabbing the bottle of champagne. Lifting it by the neck, she charges at RAIK with a cry, champagne spilling across the floor. At the sound of her voice, the Boy King half turns. The distraction is all CAMREON needs. The Tiger ducks, letting go of RAIK’s hand. Suddenly off-balance, the Boy King falls forward, stumbling into the plaster wall. But when he falls back, dazed, blood is pouring from his right eye. The back of the pen has been driven deep into the socket.
RAIK staggers forward, his limbs twitching like a broken puppet. CAMREON catches him, easing him to the carpet.
CAMREON: Raik . . .
The Boy King’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Blood trickles from his ruined eye like tears; his other eye glazes over, then closes. For a moment, the only sound is CAMREON’s ragged breathing. Then he kneels beside his brother, pressing his fingers to the king’s throat. Finding no pulse, he raises his hand to cup his brother’s bloody cheek. TIA comes to his side, still clutching the neck of the bottle.
TIA: Are you okay?
CAM: Yes.
The word is clipped. The Tiger swallows, but TIA doesn’t point out the lie.
Is Cheeky?
CHEEKY: I will be.
The girl pushes herself to her feet, wincing, her hand going to the back of her head.
I knew I should have gone with the sarong.
She comes to his side, looking at RAIK, then looks away quickly.
What are we going to do now?
CAMREON takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, but he can’t take his eyes off his brother’s face.
CAMREON: We . . . we lock the door. Look for weapons. The guards won’t be expecting us to come out till morning.
CHEEKY: And what happens in the morning?
CAMREON: I don’t know!
CHEEKY draws back, eyes wide. This is the first time she has ever heard CAMREON raise his voice. The Tiger too seems surprised by his own outburst, but TIA puts her hand on his shoulder.
TIA: I do.
When his hand comes up to cover hers, she squeezes CAM’s fingers, then pulls him to his feet.
There should be clothes in Raik’s closet. Something kingly. Go change.
She pushes CAM toward the bedchamber, but he hesitates.
CAMREON: And then?
TIA: And then when the rest of the capital wakes up, they find you on the throne.
CAMREON: What about my brother?
TIA hesitates, looking at the Boy King’s body—at the bloody pen still protruding from his eye. But CHEEKY is the one to speak, her voice tentative as she creates the narrative.
CHEEKY: He finally succumbed to his wounds from the battle at the temple.
CAMREON: No one’s going to believe that.
TIA: It doesn’t matter what they believe. It matters what you do. What you show them. Who you are. Right?
CAMREON: Right.
CAMREON takes a deep breath, collecting himself.
Right.
TIA: Now go. Get dressed.
CAMREON nods, turning toward the bedchamber, leaving the girls with RAIK’s body. The girls share a look, then CHEEKY nods down at the bloody pen, still protruding from the corpse’s eye.
CHEEKY: You know we need to get that back. Just in case we need it.
TIA: We? I saved your life.
CHEEKY: I loaned you my ostrich feathers.
TIA gives her a look.
TIA: That was two years ago!
CHEEKY: I still never got them back.
TIA stares at her for a moment, then starts laughing. CHEEKY joins her, and soon the two girls are lost in wave after wave of hysterical laughter that turns too suddenly into tears.
This is horrible. This is so horrible.
TIA: I know.
They cling to each other for a long time, and it is hard to tell which is preventing the other from falling. At last, their sobs subside into sniffles, and CHEEKY pulls back, taking a deep shuddering breath.
CHEEKY: Is there any champagne left?
TIA picks up the bottle she had hit RAIK with, tipping it upside down. A tiny drop falls out onto the carpet.
CHEEKY: Figures. All right. On three.
Taking another breath, she kneels beside the body, reaching with trembling hands for the pen.
One . . . two . . . two and a half . . .
Her fingers hover near the pen, so TIA reaches out, grabbing the pen herself and jerking it free.
TIA: Three.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Any shadow player knows that a show starts long before the curtain rises.
An audience arrives at the theater with expectations: what play they’ll see, or what troupe is behind the scrim. More sophisticated playgoers will know a particular troupe’s usual style, and an experienced troupe always knows how to use those expectations—and when to break them. Know your enemy, the saying goes, but in the theater, it’s “Know your audience.”
Of course, one reason my arrival has caused such a stir is that no one in Aquitan yet knows me, which is why the billing is so important. I have to tell them what
