Crier's War

by Nina Varela

  “I want to tell you,” he said. “Later. Not now. Not where anyone could hear.”

  “Later,” Ayla repeated slowly, still in shock. “But how long do we have? Where have you been? What’s happened?” she asked again.

  He sighed. “It’s complicated, Ayla.”

  “Don’t say that like you’re older than me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare say that like I don’t know the world is complicated.”

  “There are things you don’t—”

  “Understand?” She reared back, so shocked she almost wanted to laugh. “You’re damn right there are things I don’t understand. Here’s one: I don’t understand why you spent the last six years, what, living in Varn? Worming your way into the queen’s graces, while people are dying here in your home country, every day, the raids never stopped, and—I was here. I was here, and you didn’t come back for me. You’re right: I don’t understand.” Horrifyingly, her voice cracked on the last word.

  “Lower your voice, Ayla,” said Storme. “Stars and skies, control yourself.”

  She stared at him.

  Took a deep breath.

  “I have been controlling myself,” she said. “Everything I do is about controlling myself. How do you think I ended up here, in this palace? How do you think I became a—a leech’s handmaiden? Every single thing I have done over the past five years has all been working up to this.”

  “Working up to what, exactly?”

  Should she tell him? It was already tumbling out of her in a torrent. The Resistance. The spying. The Iron Heart.

  Revenge.

  Storme stared at her in silence for a moment. She remembered when she used to be able to read those silences; now it was like an unbearable weight. “I don’t think you should be interfering with Kinok, Ayla. Not on your own like this. It’s not safe.”

  She scoffed. “As if you have any right to tell me what’s safe anymore.”

  “Do you even know what the Anti-Reliance Movement is all about? Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Oh gods, Ayla. You know nothing. ARM may seem innocuous on the surface, but there is nothing but darkness below. If you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll stay far away from anything to do with it.”

  Ayla just barely stopped herself from yelling, You can’t tell me what to do! like a child throwing a tantrum. Part of the problem was that, despite herself, his words were sinking in. What did she know about ARM, really, that wasn’t straight from Kinok’s mouth?

  “You were gone, Storme,” she said, shoving her doubts aside. If there was one thing she was certain about, it was her anger. “You were gone. And now it’s too late. You have no control over me. I’ve made promises. Nothing you can say will stop me.”

  He sighed. “That’s always been your style, hasn’t it? Little Ayla. Always planning something. Have you already forgotten the rats?”

  “That has nothing to do with this,” she said. “That was—I was a child.”

  “It’s the same thing at the core.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Think about it, Lala.”

  “Don’t call me that—”

  It was summer, hot and muggy, everyone sweating, the whole village crusted with salt and swarming with horseflies. The air smelled like rotting seaweed. Ayla was six, maybe seven, old enough to know certain things—we are poor, we are hungry, something bad lives on the northern cliffs, Mama and Papa are scared, there are whispers of raids—but too young to know what was coming, or how bad things really were, or how close they were to death, always, every hour of every day.

  But Ayla wanted to help.

  She wanted to make bread.

  It was a simple idea. The whole village was on rations for pretty much everything: grain, salt, butter. Ayla hadn’t eaten bread for months. They’d been living on salted fish.

  She knew how to make bread: mix the flour with water and let it sit; she knew how to roll the dough and salt it and slash it and how long to let it sit in the hot ashes of the hearth.

  So, for weeks, she snuck a single spoonful of flour from the grain rations every fifth night, such a small amount that Mama never noticed anything. She stole pinches of salt from Old Woman Eyda’s doorstep, because Old Woman Eyda believed that salt would drive spirits and demons and leeches away. The last thing she collected was a pot of honey, or rather the dregs of it, a scraping of honey that Mama had given to her as a rare treat after they used up the rest of their ration. It was so hard to save the honey instead of smashing up the pot and licking the shards clean, but Ayla had willpower.

  Flour, salt, honey: she hid it all beneath the loose floorboards under her bed, waiting for the summer air to dry out a little. Every night, she fell asleep picturing the look on her parents’ faces when she presented them with a perfect loaf of sweet brown bread, still steaming from the coals. Her stomach felt so empty, those nights.

  One morning, she woke up to a shout.

  She jolted awake and leaped out of bed—Is this a raid? Are we being raided? Is this what a raid sounds like?—only to shriek in horror when her foot landed on something soft, something that made a horrible shrieking noise right back and then wriggled out from beneath her foot. Then Ayla saw that her mother was wielding a frying pan, her brother a broom, her father stomping around the floor in his fisherman’s boots—and the floor was moving, it was moving, a writhing dark mass of—

  rats.

  There must have been a hundred rats swarming the floor, hissing and climbing all over each other, their bony pink tails moving like snakes. They’d gnawed their way through the loose floorboard under her bed. They had eaten the flour, and the salt, had even shoved themselves inside the empty pot of honey and licked it clean.

  They had eaten all the salted fish. And the pickled fish.

  All of Mama’s flour rations.

  All the barley, and the seaweed, and the lard, and the eggs. All of it gone.

  “That was years ago,” she said now, shoving the rats and their awful musky rat smell far away, back into a distant corner of her mind. “I was a child. We both were.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And I grew up.”

  What the hell does that mean, you traitor, you abandoner, you coward, she wanted to say, but swallowed it.

  “Yes. You sure did grow up. Somewhere. But where? Where did you even go? After you—after—I thought you were . . . I thought you were dead. Do you even realize what that was like for me?” The words grated up through her throat, and she ground her teeth together to keep from screaming. “Your body. It was all burned up. It was you. I saw it. And, and, and you never came back, Storme. You never came back.”

  She couldn’t help it now. Tears were streaking down her face and she swiped angrily at her cheeks, trying to wipe them away, but it was no use. How dare he disappear. How dare he be alive all this time and never reach out, never reassure her, never tell her.

  It was a whole new kind of pain, raw and wrenching, one she had been choking down all day, she realized, and now it was erupting uncontrollably.

  “Ayla.” His hand was on her arm, and then, gently, he touched the golden chain that was there, always, just beneath the lip of her shirt. “You still wear it,” he whispered.

  She trembled. Of course she still wore the necklace. It was her only remnant of her life before. Of him.

  It was too much, suddenly. She felt like she was going to shatter. She jolted away from his touch, her back hitting the wall. “Don’t. Touch me.”

  “Ayla.” His voice—his whole face—was pained. She remembered that look. Of course she did. She remembered every look. “You know we can’t talk here,” he said. “Not like this. I can tell you—I ran away. That day, after the raids. And I was found by—by a group, who . . . Listen, Ayla, they took me in, they worked me over. They had me believing everything they said. About the leeches. About what we had to do to stop them. I had to vow I could never return to look for you. I had to promise, or else they
’d do something terrible. I had to promise, I—Ayla.” He was hissing the words at her now, urgently, and a stroke of fear moved through her.

  “What are you talking about, Storme?”

  “I thought you had died, too, along with Mother and Father. I feared the worst, but I also hoped for the best. I hoped you lived, even though I thought it was impossible. I hoped you made it, and in that hope, I knew I couldn’t jeopardize your safety. I had no choice.”

  She had gone numb now. None of it made sense. “You had no choice but to abandon me and never look back. And now you’re rewarded by becoming the Mad Queen’s right-hand man? You can understand my confusion, I’m sure.”

  “If . . . if you come with us, I will tell you more. Come away with me. With us. Come to Varn.”

  Her whole body revolted. “What?”

  All this time, as they argued, part of her had been hoping . . . been praying. Been imagining. That he would stay. That he would be hers again.

  “It’s not like you think. If you come to the queen’s court with me in Varn, you’ll see. I’ll explain everything.”

  She kept her voice low and controlled. “So you will be leaving with Junn when she departs, then?”

  “Of course.”

  She felt like she’d been slapped.

  “Yes,” she echoed. “Of course.” She felt disgusted. She had to get out of here. “Well, I certainly hope you and Junn have enjoyed your little visit,” she spat.

  “Have some respect,” he snapped back. “Her title is queen.”

  Even after everything else, Ayla still felt like he’d just cracked her across the face. Again.

  Who are you? she wanted to demand. You’re not my brother, what have you done with my brother—but she knew it would just make her sound foolish, hopelessly naive, like the same weak, terrified child who had summoned the rats.

  This. This was her brother. This person, standing before her, ordering her to have respect for a murderous leech—this was Storme.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense to you right now,” he said quietly, his eyes intent on her face. “But don’t condemn me. We’re not so different.”

  “Of course we are,” she choked out. “I’m not a lapdog.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I saw the way your Lady Crier looks at you,” said Storme. “It means I saw the way you look at her. The way you spoke to her. The way you almost touch her, sometimes.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ayla said hoarsely. “You’ve got no idea. You’re in the palace of the leech who ordered the raids on our village. You’re in the spider’s nest. You know that, right? It was Hesod. He’s the one who killed our parents. He created her. I would have to be—sick, to—with any spawn of his—”

  “Yes,” said Storme. “I agree. Good night, Ayla. Please think on what I’ve said. You can still change your mind.”

  And he left her there.

  For whole minutes, she stood alone, shaking. In anger. In shock. You can still change your mind. And oh, she wanted to change her mind. She wanted to change everything that had just happened. She wanted to move backward through time to the moment she first saw Storme, and race to him, embrace him. She wanted to move even further backward, to days, or weeks, before they were separated forever, and freeze time right there.

  But, like so much else that had happened in the last months, she was reminded that life didn’t work like that. No matter how terrifying and ugly the future was, no matter how difficult things were going to get, you couldn’t avoid it, and you couldn’t go back. It didn’t work like that.

  Not when your past was covered in as much blood as hers was.

  The only way to go was forward. Into the darkness. Into the chaos.

  She pushed her way out of the north wing and into the night air. She stalked the grounds, almost daring a guard to discover her, to report her, to drag her before Hesod for questioning. She’d tear his Made eyes out of his head, right there.

  She was too furious, too upset to rest, but her legs and mind ached so badly.

  She wanted to curl up in Rowan’s arms, as she had that first night Rowan had found her, and weep until she was too dry to weep again, until she was an empty shell. But Rowan was gone on a journey that could very well end in her death. Ayla didn’t know when, or if, she’d ever see her again.

  Ayla wanted to lie down and never get back up.

  She wanted her mother’s lullaby. But it wouldn’t come.

  She thought about going to the music room, alone.

  She found herself instead at the door to Crier’s bedchamber.

  15

  Crier lay in bed, intensely aware of the fact that Queen Junn herself lay in her own chamber not more than four hallways and two stairwells from here. She couldn’t get the sounds of moaning, of breath against skin, out of her head, even as she read and reread Rosi’s letter, which had been waiting for her in her room when she returned. She turned to it once again.

  To the Attention of Lady Crier, Family Hesod:

  To the first of your questions—no, I have not heard word of any new updates on the vanishing of Councilmember Reyka. But allow me to congratulate you and your fiancé on Scyre Kinok’s new seat on the Red Council! He will make a wonderful Hand to the sovereign, your father, and I’m sure it must be such a great honor to you.

  I have never been modest about my support for, and appreciation of, your fiancé. Scyre Kinok has done so much for myself and Foer! I hope you do not find it too forward of me to say: we are more than willing to help Scyre Kinok with his research again, should the need arise.

  And even without that, we know we have Kinok to thank for our very lives. If he hadn’t warned us about the human violence brewing in the south, so close to our estate, we would not have been so safe. The two of us, and the southern Hands Laone and Shasta as well. We are all grateful. We consider ourselves Scyre Kinok’s most loyal supporters!

  I’m sending you a little Nightshade as a sign of my “affection”—I haven’t touched heartstone in weeks, thanks to this!—and I hope to hear from you again soon.

  Yours,

  Rosi of House Emiele

  Crier swallowed.

  Queen Junn had said it herself: Kinok was a problem. A threat. Already too powerful, and growing more powerful by the day.

  Queen Junn. Should Crier tell her about this? She still had the green feather, but . . . her stomach twisted. She was more than a little reluctant to go seek out the queen in her quarters again. Not after the . . . sounds she’d overheard just an hour or two ago. She couldn’t—get them out of her head. Not the adviser’s grunting but Junn’s low, breathy little noises, half-formed words. Crier felt warm all over, her skin prickling, a sensation almost like the pang of hunger in her lower belly, like when she didn’t have heartstone for more than a few hours, but also not. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it. No, she would stay away from the queen’s quarters for now.

  And, gods, what of Reyka? She’d been missing for weeks, and there was still no sign of her, and now Rosi claimed to know nothing. Crier wanted to remain hopeful—wanted to believe that maybe Reyka was lying low for her own reasons; maybe she’d gone into hiding of her own volition and didn’t want to be found—but her mind was working against her, churning out worst-case scenarios. Reyka was a Red Hand, a powerful political figure. With the title came enemies. Crier had been hoping so hard that Rosi would know something. Anything.

  After all, she’d been staying at Foer’s estate, which was only a few leagues from the village of Elderell. The last place anyone had seen Reyka alive.

  But Rosi knew nothing. She didn’t even seem to care about Reyka’s disappearance at all. Crier reread the letter a tenth time, jaw tight. Kinok this, Kinok that. And—Nightshade? There was a tiny paper packet attached to the letter, filled with a thumbnail-sized sampling of an unfamiliar powder. It had the same texture as heartstone dust, but instead
of red it was a deep obsidian black.

  I haven’t touched heartstone in weeks, thanks to this!

  But what was it?

  Crier’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound so faint she wondered if she was imagining it at first. But then it came again: the sound of someone softly breathing right outside the door to her bedchamber, followed by a timid tap of knuckles on wood.

  She sat upright.

  There was no one else it could be.

  She climbed out of bed, the flagstones cold on her bare feet, and tucked the tiny packet of dark dust beneath it, then opened the door. And yes, it was Ayla on the other side, a dark shape against the lamplight from the wall sconces. Her eyes were oddly wide, her body even tenser than usual. Her lips were a thin line.

  Wordless, Crier stepped back and let her inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Have you need of me?” she said, after a long moment in which Ayla just stood there, silent and motionless. “Or—did you need something? Did my father send you?” She cocked her head. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” said Ayla, her voice wooden. “Nothing happened.”

  That’s a lie, Crier thought.

  Ayla wasn’t happy. She could see that much. Ayla turned her gaze away, and Crier, out of respect, did the same.

  She sat back down on the edge of her bed and kept her eyes on the glowing ashes in the hearth, the sparks leaping and winking out.

  “You’re not breathing,” Ayla finally said.

  Crier glanced up. Ayla was standing barely an arm’s length away. The fading firelight was warm on her skin, catching all the places that were usually shadowed: the hollows of her cheeks and clavicles, the darkness of her brown eyes.

  “No,” Crier agreed. “Sometimes I forget.”

  For some reason, that made Ayla’s jaw tighten. Crier was trying not to look for too long, but it was a rare moment that she was facing Ayla and Ayla was not paying attention to her—not watching her warily. Ayla looked particularly small right now, hands shoved into the pockets of her red uniform pants, her shirt untucked and loose around her frame. There was a gleam of gold at her throat, mostly hidden beneath her collar and the fall of her dark hair. The Made thing.