Neither Lysander nor I say anything.
“Common ground,” Diomedes says with a sigh. “Good. There it is: we are outplayed…unless we form an arrangement.”
Lysander and I both scoff, then glare at one another. Diomedes says nothing.
“What sort of arrangement?” I ask eventually.
“A military alliance with me,” Diomedes says. “A triumvirate against Atalantia.” Silence reigns until I break it with laughter. “Why not?” Diomedes asks. “You both want it from me and don’t want the other to have it. I won’t give it up, unless it’s to both of you.”
“Diomedes, this man is Atlas’s puppet,” I say.
Lysander has his own charges to levy. “Have you forgotten the Dockyards of Ganymede? Darrow’s litany of transgressions?”
Diomedes is a hard man to discourage. He smiles, patient. “Lysander.” He motions to the box. “Darrow…your new bloodsoaked queen?” I grunt. “I think we can all agree that today, I am the most aggrieved party. I have lost my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers, my mentor, and my home. This war has cost me all that I love excepttwo people. There is a voice inside that demands revenge. It tells me revenge will fill the holes torn in my heart.”
He goes quiet and stares at the pool, and I wonder if he sees their faces in the water.
He goes on. “But I know that is a lie. Arcos, a man known to all of us, said it best: ‘Death begets death begets death.’ ”
I hang my head back in frustration. When did he get so chatty?
“If we demand restitution for all the evils that have been done to us, there will be no end to this war. It will consume us and the people we claim to lead. The future is more important than our wounds.” He looks straight at me. “The purpose of war must not be vengeance. It cannot be to kill your enemies until none are left. That is barbarism. That’s how Earth and its multitude of nations strangled itself.” He looks at Lysander. “The purpose of war must be to find the road back to peace. I am not a politician. Nor a philosopher. I do not know the peace we three might find when the dust settles, but I know this: all Atalantia and Atlas—and those like them—will accept is either subjugation or annihilation.”
He leans back.
“I do not see a tyrant in either of you. I see two humans who want to leave the worlds a better place than they found them. Let us start here, now. From each of you, I request an act of humility and service. Darrow, you will present the head of Volsung Fá to the Moon Lords and ask for their mercy as your boon for the service you have rendered. Lysander, you will bring the head of Atlas to the Moon Lords and ask for their mercy as your boon. If you do not, then slag off.”
And like that, Diomedes returns to his usual stony silence to wait for us to speak.
Neither of us do.
The passions within me war. I want this fight with Lysander. I want it more than I wanted Nero’s death, but I remember all too well the hollowness I felt when he lay dead before me slain by his own son. Nero’s death did not fill the holes torn in my life. It was his daughter who did that. From the day Virginia stayed my hand at Octavia’s gala and stopped me from killing Cassius, she kept me from falling into the shadow within myself.
Today, I think of what she would say to this.
I study Lysander. Behind his petulance and the scars of war, behind even his awesome entitlement, I see the same conflict that rages in me. It is hard to put down the blade when you are afraid.
“Virginia treated with you at Phobos,” I say, halting. He looks over at me. “You let her withdraw to Mars, when you did not have to. Why?”
“I wanted her to know that there were options other than fighting to the death.”
“Why?”
“Mercury,” he says. “Your army. What Atalantia and Atlas did to them. The impalements. The massacres. How could Virginia ever surrender Mars if she thought that was all that awaited your people? How could they do anything but fight to the last?” He frowns. “I wanted her to know that I was not Atalantia or Octavia. That I was not Atlas.”
I can understand that. But I don’t know if I believe it.
“Then what are you?” I ask.
“A shepherd,” he replies. “That is all I want to be. To use the gifts given to me to make lasting peace. But this…this is a fantasy, Diomedes. Even if I agreed. Even if we did turn together on Atalantia, Darrow will never put down the sword until our people are dust. There would be no peace. Only a delayed end to what we can finish here.”
Diomedes turns to examine me. “We do not see the same man, Lysander. You have forgotten that Darrow let you live when you were a boy. That his son is half Gold. That his wife is Gold, born of the family who killed his first wife.”
“Lysander is right. There would be no peace,” I admit. “Not if there was no change. Not if the hierarchy remained. Not if my people continued on in slavery. Not if a Lune sat upon the Morning Chair. But…if there was a middle path, if there was a way forward without tyranny. For that, I could put down my sword. I could find compromise.”
I can’t believe the words coming out of my own mouth.
“Spheres of influence then?” Lysander shakes his head, adamant. “This won’t work. He has you around his finger, Diomedes. The last time he made peace with your father, he stabbed him in the back.”
