Bid My Soul Farewell

by Beth Revis

  “It was just flesh and bone,” I said. “There’s no power in that, no black.”

  Kessel shook her head. You’re wrong.

  I stared at the little bead. What did Wellebourne do to make that crucible cage so dark that my revenants, who had defied death, feared it?

  It’s hungry. Kessel’s voice was so soft that I wasn’t sure if she’d spoken aloud.

  My head shot up at the word.

  Starving, she added. We feel the ache, deep inside, when we pass through. It’s so hungry. It wants to devour.

  Why did none of them tell me this before? I wondered. But I knew the answer already. I hadn’t been asking the right question.

  “How did you escape it?” I asked. “You had to pass through the black, you said, but if it’s so ravenous, how did you escape?”

  It doesn’t want to eat us, Kessel said slowly. It wants none of the revenants—it doesn’t care about us. It wants power.

  She stared at me.

  It wants you.

  TEN

  Grey

  I WAS LATE for the council meeting. I hadn’t thought I was expected to attend, but a servant came to fetch me, and I raced after. One did not ignore imperial summons. I burst into the council chamber, breathless. All eyes turned to me, and I nervously wiped damp hair out of my face as I stepped inside.

  The only thing more out of place in this room than me was the bed. It stood at one end of the table, covered in pillows and draped in silk while the Emperor lounged on it. He was still pale, his skin a yellowish tone that crept into the whites of his eyes. His cheeks were sunken, and he looked as if he were struggling to remain upright, even propped up by a dozen down pillows.

  “Here,” a servant said, tugging my sleeve toward a seat positioned against the wall, closer to the Emperor than the council table, but not close enough that it appeared as if I had been given preferential treatment.

  The Emperor broke the awkward silence. “We begin.”

  The council members all turned their full attention to him. “As we plan the best ways to meet the needs of the citizens of Lunar Island, one thing is clear: We need change,” he said, struggling to speak loudly. “The old policies failed our people. Let us see how the council meets this . . . unusual circumstance.”

  He settled back on the pillow and glanced at me. I squirmed uncomfortably. It was rare for anyone to be a witness to a council meeting who wasn’t actually on the council.

  At first, no one spoke. The lead members of the council, including the chair, were all missing, having fled after the Emperor took over Governor Adelaide’s position. Hamish finally spoke up. For such an inconspicuous man, he seemed determined to plow forward and carry on as if this were a normal governing day. “Our first priority will be filling the seats of the council members who are missing,” he started, turning to the rest of the council.

  “No.” The Emperor’s voice was weaker now, but everyone heard him. “I need the people to see that I am a strong leader. There will be no point in establishing a council if the people don’t believe in me—they won’t believe in my council either. I must speak before them, show the people that I support them.”

  Hamish winced. “But Your Imperial Majesty,” he started. “You have been so unwell . . .”

  The Emperor leveled him with an unreadable gaze, his eyes cold and steady. “Do you really think they care whether or not I’ve been ill? They saw me as a tyrant. They wanted to overthrow me. And for what reason?”

  Finip Brundl dared to answer him. “Taxes and levies,” he said. After a heartbeat, he added, “At least, that’s how the people feel.”

  “They are the same taxes that all the colonies face. And you reap the same rewards from paying them. The streets are paved with granite from Siber. The trade routes are protected from pirates by my Imperial fleet. New medicine, textbooks for your schools, protection of the guards—all of this is what your taxes pay for.”

  I saw the little muscle in Finip’s jaw clench, but he didn’t speak again.

  “But you’re right,” the Emperor continued. “They don’t understand. So I must show the people that their Emperor cares about them.”

  “Perhaps an article in the news sheets?” one woman suggested.

  “The north,” I said.

  Everyone turned to me. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken so loudly, but now it felt as if I’d shouted the words.

  “Do continue,” the Emperor drawled.

  I took in a shaking breath. “The north needs to see that we care, too. They were hit the hardest by the plague. And, frankly, they see the least benefit of the Empire’s aid. The roads aren’t paved in the north. The farmers and villages are struggling to survive.”

  “You have extensive experience in the north?” the Emperor asked.

  I felt my cheeks burning. The truth was that, no, I had not been farther north than the quarantine hospital or the pauper’s grave in the center of the island. I suddenly remembered Hart, which did have paved streets, at least by Father’s description of it.

  The Emperor turned away from me, toward the council, and continued on as if I’d not interrupted. “Before we unravel the socioeconomic issues in one area, let’s consider a quicker solution to the immediate problem at hand. Morale is low. We need a celebration,” he said. “A rally of sorts.”

  “You want to throw a party?” Several of the members of council shifted uncomfortably in their seats with Hamish’s countering of the Emperor’s words, but he didn’t back down. “Our people are still recovering from the plague.”

  “That’s it,” the Emperor said, sitting up and shaking a finger at Hamish in approval. “We should celebrate the medical alchemists who worked so hard to fight the plague, and we should celebrate the survivors.”

  “Perhaps a memorial for the dead . . .” Prinna, the councilwoman of finance, suggested.

  Emperor Auguste shook his head, dismissing her suggestion. “No mourning. We must move forward. And to do that, we need to bring joy back to Lunar Island.”

  “It would be, at best, merely a bandage to dire feelings of anger and distress,” Hamish started.

  “I know.” The Emperor’s voice was stronger now. “This is not a solution to all of Lunar Island’s problems. I want to assure you—assure all my people—that I am not merely going to throw a party and run back to the mainland. I want to strengthen the people’s morale, and prove to them that I am not a weak man hiding in confinement as the news sheets claimed.”

  His eyes drifted to me. “And,” he added, “let’s follow Astor’s suggestion as well. The north needs revitalization, as you say.” He paused, contemplating. “How would you feel about going there?”

  It took several beats for me to realize he was waiting for my answer. “Me?”

  He nodded. “We need a face of change. Someone new, someone young, someone energized. Someone the people can trust.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t have any experience,” I started, looking around me.

  “This isn’t about experience,” the Emperor said. “It’s about appearances. We need someone the people will trust. Frankly, that excludes the council and anyone who’s already established in politics.”

  “But . . .”

  “My secretary can handle all the details,” the Emperor said, turning away from me. “Meanwhile . . .” He snapped his fingers. A steward came forward, spilling a pile of heavy linen paper on the table. I strained to see more. Each of the large papers bore a heavy wax seal beribboned and gilded—the sign of the Emperor himself.

  Hamish picked up the top page. “Decrees for state buildings?” he asked. His frown deepened. “Orphanages, a new wing to the hospital, market stands . . .”

  “Our coffers are empty,” Prinna said. “The banks cannot lend the government any more—”

  “This is being paid for from my personal treasury,” the Empe
ror said. He smiled as the council applauded his generosity.

  “But where are they to go?” Hamish said. “This one—a new orphanage in Blackdocks. We’ll have to condemn a factory, I think, or—”

  “Make it work,” the Emperor ordered. “We must give this to the people.”

  Hamish nodded silently, his eyes still on the papers. As city planner, he would be responsible for finding ways to make the buildings fit into the already crowded city. It would be difficult, but surely worthwhile.

  Prinna shook her head, the ends of her hair bouncing off her cheeks.

  “You have something to add?” the Emperor said coldly.

  I saw the councilwoman of finance clench and unclench her fists under the table. She took a deep breath, but when she spoke, her words were loud and clear. “If our people must celebrate, let them do so with a hanging!” she declared. “What about the necromancer? Surely that is a crime that takes priority over a few new buildings and a party?”

  My back stiffened. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Emperor glance at me.

  “My mind is heavy in regard to Nedra Brysstain,” Emperor Auguste finally said. “She violated the law against necromancy, but she also used it to free me. It is not a simple matter.”

  “The law is clear—” Prinna started.

  “It is.” The Emperor cut her off so smoothly that Prinna’s teeth clacked together as she snapped her jaw closed. “The law of the land and the law of the gods are both very clear: We must not suffer a necromancer to live among us.”

  No one looked at me.

  This is it, I thought. He’s going to demand her arrest. She’s going to be hung.

  “Council is dismissed,” the Emperor said. A secretary rang a brass bell, letting it toll once before silencing the clapper with his gloved hand. The council got up from the table, muttering to one another in low tones. I stood, awkwardly, because everyone else was standing. I tried lingering, but I couldn’t catch the Emperor’s eye. I followed the council out into the hall, then made my way back to my rooms.

  Could the Emperor condemn to death the person who had saved his life? By law, he should, but . . .

  He made the laws.

  ELEVEN

  Nedra

  MY HAND SPREAD over my great-grandmother’s journal as I tried to reorient myself. I remembered when I first found it. I had wanted, even then, to be an alchemist. While Nessie picked a new dream every day, mine was indelible. When I first opened the soft leather cover, my fingers brushed against the faded illustrations of herbs, the recipes for potions, the history of medicine. I turned the pages reverently, feeling the same sort of awe I felt during holy day services.

  My grandmother—my father’s mother—had still been alive then.

  “You remind me of her,” Granny had told me. “Just as stubborn, and just as hungry.”

  “Hungry?”

  “For knowledge. For answers.” Granny had laughed. She’d been cooking something—I remembered that we had this conversation in the kitchen, and that it was warm and it smelled of home. I wished I could remember the details more clearly. That had been one of my last conversations with her.

  “My ma, she loved learning. That’s why she loved Pa’s book cart. She always said she married him for his books and not his looks.” She laughed then. I could still hear the echoes of the joyous sound in my ears. I closed my eyes, leaning into the memory.

  “And you,” Granny had said, turning and pointing the wooden spoon at Nessie. “You’re just like my ma’s sister, Aunt Mabry.”

  “In what way?” Nessie said. Our great-aunt Mabry had died before we were born.

  “Carefree.” Granny snorted. “Careless.”

  Nessie had giggled.

  “No one could ever tell Aunt Mabry what to do. She never did get married, never did settle down. No man or woman could tame her. She’d come home long enough to earn a little money, then she’d be off again, doing some adventure or another. Sailed halfway around the world.”

  Nessie had leaned back. “That’ll be Ned, not me,” she’d said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Neither am I,” I said glumly.

  Granny had shaken her head. “No, my love,” she told me. “You’ll go places. But you’ll always come home.”

  “You’ll always come back to us!” Nessie had said in a singsong voice. Then she stuck her tongue out at me. “And I’ll have to bail you out like Great-Grandmother had to save Great-Aunt Mabry.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.” I’d snorted. Even then, Nessie was already notorious in the village for her array of dramatic love stories and her aspirations of grandeur. “We both know that I’m going to be the one to have to save you from yourself.”

  The memory faded from my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying hard to remember what else had been said. What scents popped up from Granny’s cast-iron frying pan? What sounds were in the background—Mama? Papa? But as I tried to hold on to every detail, they slipped away, water through my open fingers, and I was left with cold reality.

  I opened my eyes, and my gaze settled on Nessie.

  She stared blankly back at me.

  “I’ll still save you,” I whispered.

  TWELVE

  Nedra

  I HEADED OUTSIDE, needing fresh air. There was very little land on the tiny island; I could easily walk the perimeter in fifteen minutes. But while the southern side of the island ended on the gray stone steps that led directly into the bay, the northern side had a small grassy lawn, a few scraggly trees, and swampy marshlands.

  Before I had made the quarantine hospital my home, this lawn held nothing more than a few tables for the alchemists and potion makers to relax and eat lunch between shifts. Now it was something of a playground. It hadn’t been the revenants who’d used ropes and planks to make swings in the trees or who’d cleared a space for a maypole. It had been the parents of the children raised from the dead.

  As far as children’s playgrounds went, it wasn’t bad. It was just . . . quiet.

  I stood by the door, watching the children play. Two girls used a tightly wrapped wad of cloth as a ball, kicking it back and forth between them. A little boy fluttered the ribbon of the maypole. Most of the parents—living people unable to let go of their children—stood to the side, close together, their attention focused on their individual offspring.

  Ernesta stood behind me, as constant as my shadow. When one of the parents—Dannix—broke away from the group and approached me, his eyes kept flicking to Nessie. No one liked my twin—not the living, not the dead. She was some strange in-between that made them all uneasy.

  Ronan followed his father, a silent shadow. “Go play,” Dannix told his son when he noticed him. While his father watched, Ronan plastered a smile on his face and ran to the swings. As soon as Dannix turned away, though, the emotion faded from Ronan’s countenance and he let the swing he sat on still.

  Dannix’s attention was on me. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” he said, a note of trepidation marring his voice. I watched him coolly. “Last night, I woke up to Ro standing over me.”

  I didn’t speak. I had learned that most people wanted to fill the silence, if I just let them.

  “He was staring at me,” Dannix said again, his voice pitched a bit higher, a bit more frantic. “I said, ‘Do you need something?’ And do you know what he said to me?”

  I shook my head. Dannix’s gaze shifted to Nessie again, then back to me.

  “He said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave you like Mother or Jax.’ And there was just . . .” He struggled to find the words. “There was something terrifying about the way he said it.” He exhaled, his confession voiced. “‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave you,’” he repeated in a high-pitched monotone.

  I looked past Dannix, toward Ronan, still sitting on the swing, still waiting. I knew—because he
was my revenant, because I had held his soul in my hand—I knew that he really wanted to be free. But he was a bird sitting willingly in his open cage.

  He would never leave his father behind. It was his choice to be here. He would hold on as long as he could. I had given him the same choice as all the others, and just because he was a child didn’t mean he didn’t understand what he chose. Even now, all he had to do was tell me he wanted to let go, and I would release his soul from his body.

  Dannix turned to me. “I don’t know which is worse. Losing him, or having him back.”

  “I’m not sure either,” I said softly.

  Dannix’s mouth dropped open at my words. I did not elaborate.

  “It’s not fair.” Dannix spit the words out bitterly. Neither Nessie nor I responded. We both knew it wasn’t fair. Death wasn’t a children’s game with rules that must be observed. It simply was.

  When I didn’t answer him, Dannix turned his back to me, watching his son. After a few moments, he spoke without turning to face me. “He’s quieter now.”

  I thought of Kessel, and the way she had seemingly forgotten her sisters.

  The dead were fading away to nothing.

  I realized now why Dannix kept looking to Nessie. He was probably afraid that his son would become like her.

  “Tell me there’s still hope,” Dannix said softly. “Even if it’s untrue. Tell me there’s hope, and I’ll believe you.”

  I took a step closer to Dannix, not breaking eye contact, and waited to speak until I knew his attention was fully on my words. “There is hope,” I said. “As long as the body can stand in front of me, there is hope for the soul.”

  Dannix’s whole body sagged in relief.