And the Burned Moths Remain by Benjanun Sriduangkaew Read Free Book Online Page A

precognition—she has none, and the Hegemony does not admit superstition. She is kept here for the sake of yesterdays rather than tomorrows.
    When accuracy is prioritized over mythology, she is called the Record of Tiansong.
    *   *   *
    The arena empties, the spectators’ seats vacated one by one. In the absence of living bodies, the vastness of the floor runs like a cold hand down Jingfei’s back. The scale was not meant for her, even so many of her; the fortress was created to accommodate millions, an experiment in sealed cities. But the Hegemony grew and conquered, and in time its prosperity made structures like her prison obsolete.
    Now there is only one inhabitant. One inmate.
    The duelist remains standing over her opponent, over the blots from her arteries, the unsightly discoloration where spilled guts have daubed the floor. There are runnels where her blood, old and new, has congealed and caked, nearly as solid as resin. Her foot nudges the fallen body, stirs the coils of dark hair that she always wears shoulder-length. She should be used to it— is used to it—but though experience transfers there is always an instinct underneath, a reflexive displacement to see herself lying down dead as she continues to breathe, even with the knowledge that she dealt the fatal blow.
    She wipes away the brittle sheen of her sweat, casts off gloves crusted in salt, peels away her outer robe stained in gore. They land, wet, on blood still hot as she lifts her head to the envoy.
    â€œWould it be tactless,” the visitor says, “to ask why you were fighting yourself?”
    â€œFor sport, for thrill, for justice. You must’ve read my file. Do I strike you as someone who’d tolerate her own company well? It’s a wonder this doesn’t happen more often. What did you say your name was?”
    The boy and adolescent, Jingfei both, do not make the joke of answering their other self. The envoy puts her hand to her chest. “I am Damassis of Iron Gate, formerly Damassis Ingmir.”
    Three pairs of eyes train on Damassis, sniper-focused. She is the Hegemonic ideal brought to animation: avian-sharp skull and cheeks, a high narrow nose, a complexion with the undertone of pearl rather than Tiansong ivory. Her ancestry is unmistakable, each pump through her veins conqueror’s blood, each whipcrack of her heart the roar of warships. The boy says, “You would submit to bearing a Tianhua clan-name? You’ve taken a wrong turn, envoy; you didn’t invade us to assimilate into our culture. Allow me to map your path back to propriety—dye Iron Gate the colors of Ingmir, and make your children and theirs take your name. That’s the correct order of things.”
    â€œIt’s no wound to my honor or personhood to wear this name. I keep it with pride.”
    â€œDid you come by it through adoption? Marriage?”
    â€œLove has made me naïve.” Damassis unwinds a chain from her throat, alloy dense as neutron stars, each link refraction-etched with verses from Tiansong plays. She pulls down from her hair moths and butterflies of living resin, with compound eyes of event-horizon windows and antennae of meteor frost. Each object is priceless. “I have brought gifts.”
    The boy takes the chain, though its weight challenges his. The adolescent affixes the moths and butterflies to eir hair, though their proboscises chill eir scalp. The duelist, ungifted, sheathes her steaming sword. Its lease on being will run out soon, the stress of protracted battle having cracked its limits. “How is Tiansong?”
    â€œThe planet of your nativity fares very well. Of all subjects in our administrative bounds it’s among the most favored. Its nationals keep their names, their traditions. This much we promised you, and we honor that pledge.”
    The boy lifts his eyebrows; the adolescent chuckles, low. “Not that, envoy. You married one of us. Iron