by Nina Varela
“You,” Crier said to Storme. “Go to the queen. Tell her to give me half an hour with Scyre Kinok. Just half an hour.”
“You’ve gone mad,” said Storme. “No, no way. Ayla will have my head on a pike if I let you get yourself killed.”
“Adviser Storme. Please.”
She looked at him steadily, waiting out his deliberation. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you,” said Crier. “After that, go to the music room. Ayla needs you, too.”
Kinok’s army was easy to spot. Even from the courtyard she could see them. The sovereign’s palace was seated where gentle, grassy hills flattened out to meet the cliffs of the Steorran, and Crier could see it: a fuzzy yellow light on the western horizon, at the crest of a hill, close and coming closer. The slow burn of torches. And there, floating above the light, she could make out the tallest war flags. Most of them were black, like the robes of a Scyre, like the armbands so many people had worn to Crier and Kinok’s engagement ball. Like Nightshade. But some of Kinok’s followers were marching under their own colors. Crier saw more than one family crest belonging to a member of the Red Council. Shen, Yaanik, Paradem. It was one more pang of betrayal. They hadn’t just turned against the sovereign—they had turned against Rabu itself.
She squinted. They were definitely still moving. At this rate, they’d reach the edge of the sovereign’s estate by nightfall.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t make it any farther.
Crier paused in the middle of the courtyard, ignoring the stares and whispers all around her, weighing her options. Should she wait for them at the edge of the estate? Should she attempt to meet them halfway?
“Crier!”
Something prickled at the back of her mind. Why did she know that voice? She turned, scanning the crowd that had gathered, a circle of humans and Automae watching her with mixed fear and wariness and curiosity and, on a few faces, something she could have sworn was awe.
“Crier!” the voice repeated, and this time she saw him, wriggling his way through the crowd and breaking free, stumbling into the ground zero of empty space around her.
Hook. The boy who’d saved her from the Shades on the river, the rebel leader with his group of lost children. She felt her mouth drop open. The last time they’d seen each other, on the white shell banks of the Queen’s Cove . . . Crier had thought surely that was it, their paths would never cross again. But here he was, a little worse for the wear—there was a bandage plastered over his left ear, and his left eye was badly swollen—but very much alive, grinning even, just as wide and toothy as she remembered.
“All of you quit your gawking, give her some space,” he said loudly, making a shooing gesture at the crowd. Then he strode right up to Crier, looking totally unconcerned about the silver-white light pulsing from her skin. “Hello again,” he said, giving her a jaunty salute. “I’d hoped to find you here, but I’ll admit I didn’t expect you to be glowing.”
“You—” she started, not knowing how to finish the sentence. You made it? I’m glad you’re alive? I’m glad to see you again? I thought you wanted nothing to do with me? “You—hoped to find me?”
“Yeah.” His smile faded. “I . . . regret it. Leaving you there, I mean. I’m sorry.”
Crier nodded. “I forgive you,” she said. She didn’t have the time—or the desire—for anything else. “You were looking out for your own. I understood then and I understand now.” It was the most human thing in the world. “We both got here in the end, didn’t we?”
“That we did,” he said. “By the way, I think it bears repeating: you’re, uh, glowing?”
She leaned in, hyperaware of all the eyes on them, all the ears pricked to catch their every word. “I found Tourmaline,” she told him, lower even than a whisper. “I found it, Hook.”
His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came.
Crier waited a few seconds, but he still didn’t speak. “Hook?” she said, tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. Was he really that shocked about Tourmaline?
Then she realized: He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on something just past her shoulder, and he was still frozen. He was barely even breathing.
Crier turned, following his gaze. At the edge of the crowd was a human with golden hair. They were tall and fine-boned, elegant. The last time Crier saw this person, they’d been laid out in the physician’s caravan, looking for all the world like a corpse. Like a skeleton, gaunt and terrible, eyes sunken deep into their skull. She remembered their arms, bandaged from wrist to elbow.
Their face was a mirror of Hook’s. That same breathless, helpless shock.
Then—
“I am going to fucking kill you,” Hook gasped, and lunged for them. Crier didn’t even have time to be alarmed before Hook practically threw himself at the golden-haired human, both hands twisting in the front of their shirt, dragging them down till they were nose to nose. “I’m going to kill you,” he said again, almost incoherent, words blurring together, giving the human a hard shake and then falling into them, pressing his forehead to their chest. “I’m going to kill you, Erren, you ass, you utter fucking bastard, I swear on all ten thousand gods I’m going to kill you, I hate you, do you have any idea—do you have any idea—”
Erren.
Erren was one of thousands, Hook had told Crier. To find them—to save them—I’d risk walking into a trap. I’d risk just about anything.
I know what you mean, Crier had said.
“I’m sorry,” Erren said, sounding dazed. They hadn’t made any moves to defend themselves. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know,” Hook snapped.
“You’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s probably the first time you’ve ever admitted someone else is right,” Hook said, and then, “I hate you,” and then, “I will never forgive you, in this life or the next,” and then he pushed up on his tiptoes and took Erren’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together, then their mouths.
Crier turned away, quite certain she shouldn’t be watching this, only to be confronted by another familiar face.
“Hello, Lady Crier,” said Faye.
“You’re alive,” Crier said, stunned. The last time she’d seen Faye, the scullery maid had been surrounded by the sovereign’s guards after helping Crier escape. She’d hoped Faye hadn’t been punished with death, but the sovereign wasn’t known for his mercy. Crier had feared the worst. But Faye was alive, standing in front of her, clothed not in a scullery maid’s uniform but in a yellow dress Crier recognized from her own wardrobe.
And, moths to a lanternlight, they kept coming. Bree fought her way out of the crowd a moment later, took one look at Hook and Erren—who had stopped kissing and were now holding each other so tight Crier couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began—and rattled off a long string of curses, some in languages even Crier didn’t know. Then Bree was dragging Erren out of Hook’s arms and into her own, and Faye said, “You,” and Crier turned to see Dinara. Crier knew Dinara and the other rebels had been rescued from the Iron Heart, but hadn’t gotten a chance to exchange more than a handful of words with her during the journey east.
Crier glanced between Faye and Dinara, taken aback. “You know each other?”
Dinara shook her head, but Faye nodded. “In ink and thread,” she said, and offered no further explanation.
“Crier,” said Dinara, stepping up to her side. “What are you doing?”
“I had the same question,” came Hook’s voice, and he joined her, hand-in-hand with Erren. Bree followed, though she still watched Crier with open distrust. And just like that, Crier was facing the five of them—Hook, Faye, Dinara, Bree, Erren—and they were looking back at her, expectant.
“I’m going to find Kinok,” she said, willing her voice not to shake. She wished Ayla were here. Things were easier with Ayla. “I’m going to stop him.”
“Kinok won’t kill me,” said Crier. “At least not yet.” She looked around their small circle, meeting the eyes of each person one by one. “I’m ending this,” she said, trying to sound braver and more confident than she was. “I’m the only one who can do it. The only one with any chance of getting his followers to turn.”
“Are you insane?” Bree demanded. Still the same Bree, then. “What, you’re just going to march right up to his army and say Please bring me to Kinok?”
Crier thought for a second. “Yes.”
“To be fair, she is glowing,” Hook muttered.
“This is a fool’s errand,” said Dinara. “Even if they don’t kill you on sight, who’s to say they won’t just knock you out and deliver you to Kinok in shackles?”
“I know how to make them listen to me,” Crier assured them, silently praying it was true. “Please trust me. I have to do this, and I have to do it alone.”
“You don’t,” said Erren, speaking for the first time.
Hook rounded on them. “Erren, don’t even think about it.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” they said. “I won’t try to talk you out of it. I’d do the same thing in your position; I’d do whatever it took. But you’re wrong. You don’t have to go alone.” Erren caught the look on her face and huffed. “Look, I don’t know you, and I sure as all hells don’t like your father, but you saved my life. I know you and Ayla told Junn’s guard to go back for me and the others. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead right now. Or worse, I’d still be alive. In there. In that room. So—I’m coming with you.”
Crier shook her head. “I can’t let you—”
“I’m coming with you,” Erren repeated. Their expression darkened. “If nothing else, give me the pleasure of watching Kinok’s downfall firsthand. He owes me some blood.”
“But—”
“I’m coming too,” said Hook. “No, don’t even try to talk me out of it. First of all, I’m never letting this idiot”—he gestured at Erren, who scowled—“out of my sight again as long as I live. Second of all, I’ve always liked an adventure.”
“This isn’t an adventure, it’s a suicide mission,” Bree snapped, and then, “Gods be damned. I guess I’m going.”
“As am I,” said Dinara. “I’ll go just for the look on the Scyre’s face.”
“I . . . ,” Crier said weakly. “I can’t ask you all to . . .”
“My lady,” said Faye. “Don’t you know? You’re not the only one who wants to end this. Before the death toll grows.”
The heart that did not belong to Crier throbbed inside her chest. Part of her wanted to cry. Part of her wanted to keep arguing with them. Part of her wanted to say thank you, thank you, I didn’t want to be alone for this, I have never wanted to be alone. But she’d already dawdled long enough. The yellow flicker of Kinok’s army was drawing ever closer, so close now she could see the details of the family crests on the war flags. An owl, a serpent, a sword and shield, a red crystal shaped like a teardrop. She knew them all.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
In the palace, in the music room, there was something worth dying for. Worth living for.
Crier opened her eyes.
“Stay close,” she said, looking at all five of them in turn. “Kinok wants me alive. But only me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hook, giving her a tiny smile. Crier remembered: golden hills, Lake Thea swallowing the horizon, yellow grass rippling in the wind. Are you my friend? she’d wondered then. Perhaps this was the answer. “We’ll stay right by your side.”
There was a story Crier had read and reread about a thousand times. She had memorized every word of it, could picture each illuminated page, could flip through them in her mind.
As she walked to meet Kinok’s army head-on, Crier told herself the story of Hana and Winter. She let the story unspool inside her. She thought of Hana and Winter and old bones, ice fields, starlit hearts. And the heart that did not belong to her continued to beat steadily, and the symbols on her skin held their strange silver-white glow.
They walked, and around them the gloaming fell into place. That was all right. Crier could see in the dark. She could see Kinok’s army, maybe two hundred strong—so much smaller than she’d expected. She could see the war flags and the torches and lanterns and illuminated faces. She could see thirteen members of the Red Council right up front, and behind them a sea of familiar faces: nobles and landowners and other elites, Automae she had seen at balls and weddings and political gatherings, Automae who had visited the palace each year as a gesture of good faith to the sovereign. The sovereign. Truth be told, Crier couldn’t blame them for defecting, for rebelling against him. She’d done the same thing.
But she could blame them for the black flags.
For the man they’d chosen as their new king.
And there he was.
Kinok, the war hero, the Watcher of the Heart, the Scyre, the hunter, the scientist, the angry boy playing at war. There he was, emerging from the front lines, his customary black robes switched for red. His army was a silent mass behind him. They had stopped marching. The space between Kinok and Crier had shrunk to the length of a courtyard. Here they were, at the place where the sovereign’s fields met the low, grassy hills. Crier drew a map inside her head: half a mile north, the road that led to Yanna. The River Daedus. She and Kinok were facing each other across an expanse of grass that looked black in the gathering darkness. Everywhere, there were patches of tiny white flowers. Stardrops.
“Brace yourselves,” Bree muttered. “Any second now, they’ll start firing arrows.”
“They won’t,” said Crier. “Not if you stay behind me. I told you. He wants me alive.”
She started forward again, and the five of them followed. Compared to the army before them, they were nothing. Six against two hundred. Not the best odds.
Though—in the end, wasn’t it six against one?
Crier only stopped when she could see the whites of Kinok’s eyes. Barely fifty paces between them now. And the strangest thing was happening: as Crier drew closer, Kinok’s army drew back. Not on Kinok’s orders, not on anyone’s orders. The councilmembers holding the front lines were breaking formation, backing into each other, exhibiting a kind of mass gracelessness Crier had never witnessed from her own Kind. At first, she didn’t understand why they were backing away. Why they were looking at her like that.
“They’re scared,” said Hook, as if listening to her thoughts. “Crier. They’re scared of you.”
Oh.
A voice rang out across the space between them. “Hold your ground!” Kinok ordered, and Crier’s attention was on him again, and, oh, oh, he looked furious. “I said hold your ground!”
His army went still. But the fear on their faces—cold fear, Automa fear, a slight widening of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw—remained. Kinok couldn’t order that away.
He couldn’t control it.
He couldn’t even keep it off his own face.
Crier squared her shoulders like Ayla did, holding her chin high. “Kinok,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice too much. They were Automae. They would hear her. She held out her arms, palms up, the glowing runes on full display. “Guess what I found.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. Yora’s heart. Tourmaline. I have it; I know how to create and activate it. I know how to turn Tourmaline into a life source. Our next life source.” Then, to his followers: “I am living proof that Kinok cannot give you what you seek,” she said. “He can’t even keep you alive. He’s the one who destroyed the Iron Heart!”
That got their attention. More than one head turned to look at Kinok, a ripple of movement.
“The days of heartstone are over,” Crier continued. “What can the Scyre offer you? Nightshade? The black dust that drives you mad, eats away at your body and mind without eve
r letting you die? The black dust he’s been using to poison his most loyal followers?” She took a shaky breath, thinking of Rosi, of the countless others who had died in one of the worst ways imaginable, Nightshade eating away at their minds. “Scyre Kinok is a traitor and a murderer. He is tricking you. He doesn’t care about Anti-Reliance—he doesn’t care about anything but power. He wants to kill my father and take the throne and you were just pawns in his game. He would kill all of you in a heartbeat.”
“I implore you, do not listen to this foolish little girl,” Kinok said lazily, all traces of fear replaced by arrogance. “You remember Lady Crier: a naive child with nothing better to do than spin stories. Every word from her mouth is a lie, same as her father. Look at her, look what she’s become!” He flung out an arm, gesturing at her, as if everyone wasn’t already looking. “She is a spineless, Reasonless human sympathizer! She is a traitor to her Kind!”
“And the only one who can keep our Kind alive,” Crier said, and reached up to undo the pin at her throat. Her shirt fell open where Ayla had made the cut, exposing Crier’s collarbone, the tip of her sternum—and the place where Yora’s heart beat within her chest. The epicenter, her new core. You could practically see the heart through her skin, like looking at the sun through a piece of parchment; the entire left side of Crier’s chest was pulsing with a pale blue glow. “See for yourselves,” she said, addressing the army, the Automae. “The power of Tourmaline.”
The murmurs were growing louder. More and more heads were turning in Kinok’s direction, but not because they were awaiting his orders. Crier saw the outrage on their faces, the suspicion, the mistrust, the burgeoning signs of dissent. It spurred her on.
“It’s over, Kinok,” she said. “Queen Junn’s army is waiting for you at the palace. They outnumber you by a thousand. It’s over. You failed to create a new life source. You failed to find Yora’s heart. You failed to transmute Tourmaline. This is your last chance to do something right. Will you march to certain death? Or will you surrender now and live?” She raised her voice. “Every single one of you has a choice. Death, or surrender?”
