“The Pax?”
“No. Smaller. Though not much smaller. The Stained that was here.”
“Ragnar?”
“If that’s its name,” Lorn says.
“His name,” I say. “He was meant to be a gift to the Julii for betraying Augustus.”
“Saw it in the Citadel’s arena once—scary as some of the things that hide in Europa’s seas.”
“He might be an Obsidian, but he’s still a man.”
“Biologically, maybe. But he’s bred for one thing. Don’t forget that.”
“You treat your own servants kindly. I expect you to treat mine the same.”
“I treat people kindly. Pinks, Browns, Reds are people. Your Ragnar is a weapon.”
“He chose me. Tools don’t choose.”
“Have it your way, but know the consequences.” Lorn shrugs and mutters something further under his breath.
“Say what you want to say.”
“You’re going to fall into trouble because you believe that exceptions to the rule make new rules. That a bad man can be good simply because he says he can or simply because he does so once when you are watching. Men do not change. That is why I killed the Rath boy. Learn the lesson now, so you don’t have to learn it with a knife in your back later. The Colors exist for a reason. Reputations exist for a reason.”
For the first time, he seems small and old to me. It’s not his wrinkles. It’s what he says. He is a relic. Thoughts like his belong to the age I am trying to destroy. He can’t help what he believes. He’s not seen what I’ve seen. He’s not come from where I’ve been. He had no Eo to push him, no Dancer to guide him, no Mustang to give him hope. He grew up in a Society where love and trust are as scarce as grass in the desert. But he’s always wanted both. He’s like a man planting seeds, watching them grow into trees, only for his neighbors to cut them down. It will be different this time. And if all goes well, I will give him back a grandson.
“You taught me once, Lorn. I’m a better man for it. But now it’s my turn to teach you. Men can change. Sometimes they have to fall. Sometimes they have to leap.” I pat his knee and gain my feet. “Before you die, you’ll realize it was a mistake to kill Tactus, because you never gave him the chance to believe he was a good man.”
I find Ragnar lying on the ground in the freezer unit, at home in the bitter chill. His shirt is off, so I see the frightening angles of his tattooed body. Runes everywhere. Protection over his back. Malice over hands. Mother over his throat. Father over his feet. Sister behind his ears. The mysterious skull marks of Stained upon his face.
“Ragnar,” I say, sitting. “Not much for company, are you?”
He shakes his head, the white ponytail curls on the floor. Eyes like stains of pitch stare at me, measuring. Second eyes, tattoos on the backs of his eyelids, are strange, pupils like those of a dragon or a snake, so that when he blinks, his animal soul sees into the world around.
I sit watching him, wondering how to say what I want to say. Obsidians are the most alien of the Colors.
“By offering me stains, you are bound to me. What does that mean to you?”
“It means I obey.”
“Unconditionally?” He does not answer. “If I asked you to kill your sister or your brother?”
“Are you asking me this?”
“It is a hypothetical.” He does not understand the notion when I explain it.
“Why plan?” he asks. “You plan. You decide. I do or I do not, there is no plan.” He considers his next words carefully. “Mortals who plan die a thousand times. We who obey die but once.”
“What is it that you want?” I ask. He doesn’t stir. “I’m speaking to you, Stained.”
“Want.” He chuckles. “What is want?” The derision in his voice comes from a deeper place than our godless realm. He’s alien here, because we grow his kind in worlds of ice and monsters and ancient gods. We get what we pay for. “You name it, so you think I know it. Want.”
“Don’t play games with me and I won’t play them with you, Ragnar.” I wait a long moment. “Must I repeat myself?”
“Gold plans. Gold wants,” he rumbles slowly. Time between each sentence. “Wanting is your heartbeat. We of the Allmother do not want. We obey.”
“On your knees?” He says nothing in reply, so I continue. “You once wore shackles, Ragnar. Now the shackles don’t weigh you down. So … what do you want?” He doesn’t respond. Is it petulance? “Surely you want something.”
“You struck off the shackles of others and seek to bind me with the shackles like your own. Your wants. Your dreams. I do not want.” He says it again. “I do not dream. I am Stained. Destined by Allmother Death to deliver her promise.” His face shows me nothing, but I feel petulance in the man. “Did you not know?”
I examine him warily. “You make yourself look dumber than you really are.”
“Good.” He sits up swiftly, before I even have time to move back. Bloodydamn, he’s fast. He takes out a knife and very quickly cuts his palm. “When I offered stains, I bound myself to you. Forever. Till nothing.”
I know this is their way. And I know what horrors he went through to gain the title of Stained. He is not a man of half oaths or half measures. To be an Obsidian is to know misery. To be a Stained is to be misery. And it is to angle themselves one way in life—to serve their Golden gods, like myself, if they are so lucky. We take their strong. We leave their weak. We send Violets with tech to make lightning shows on hillsides. We sow famine, then descend with food. We send plagues, then bless them with Yellows to heal their sick and cure their blind. We have Carvers seed monsters in their oceans and griffins and dragons in their mountains. And when we are displeased, we destroy their cities with bombardments from orbit. We make ourselves their gods. And then we bring them into our world to serve our greedy aims. We want. They obey. How could Ragnar ever be what I need him to be?
“What if I wanted to you be free?”
He flinches back. Eyes expressing a deep fear. “Freedom drowns.”
“Then learn to swim.” I set a hand on his massive shoulder. Muscles like rocks beneath the skin. “One brother to the other.”