by Heidi Heilig
There are more Aquitan guards stationed at the entry, though they step aside at the general’s gesture. The interior of the prison—no, the workshop—is even more changed. The smell of filth and unwashed bodies has been seared away by the oily scent of chemicals; instead of the cries of prisoners, the soft hum of a generator fills the air. Scattered across the floor of the sanctuary like offerings to the old god are piles of crates: munitions, guns, fuel. But in the middle of it all, there is an empty space, as impossible to ignore as a missing tooth. The god himself—or rather, the stone idol—is gone.
Once, the statue stood as tall as the roof of the temple: a paean to the King of Death, and to the people who worshipped him enough to carve such a massive offering from granite. Now, all that remains is the platform on which it stood. Where are the pieces? Has Legarde’s soul gone with them? Was his spirit carted away with the gravel and tossed into a pothole on a crooked street? Or did the stone I trapped him in crumble into dust so fine that he was able to escape—to go on to his next life, or his jealous God, or wherever Aquitan souls go? I doubt I’ll ever know.
But, thinking of Papa, I hope Legarde is just as trapped as I now am.
I am so busy comparing my memory of Hell’s Court to the new reality that it takes me a moment to notice what hasn’t changed: the souls—or rather, the lack of them. Temples usually glow brightly with spirits, all come to wait for their rebirth. Here, the only light comes from the glass bulbs. Not a single vana drifts through the air. When I was last in this place, I thought it was Le Trépas’s presence that scared them away. Does his effect still linger, even after his escape? Was the man so evil that his repellence seeped into the stone?
Will souls eventually fear me in the same way?
The lack of souls only adds to my discomfort. Even Leo seems subdued, but Xavier doesn’t falter. Of course not—he believes in another god. Unflinching, he marches me to the altar. It takes me a moment to recognize it, for the carved black stone is half hidden by a huge wooden trunk beside it, and both are covered with a veritable wealth of paper and books. Sitting before the makeshift desk is a familiar figure. Is she up early, or late? But despite the hour, and the drab canvas coveralls that hide the curve of her famed belly, Theodora Legarde is still stunning.
La Fleur, they call her: the most beautiful woman in Chakrana. And they would have called her queen, if the Boy King hadn’t fled. Her red lips are pursed in concentration; the electric light gleams gold in her blond curls. The dimples of her plump wrists flash as she taps a pen against the paper. As we approach, she glances up from her work to my face—no, to the carcan. My cheeks flush.
“So they found you after all,” she says. A wry smile reveals her white teeth. “Welcome to my new workshop. Try not to destroy it.”
Does she think she can shame me? I raise my chin, ignoring the disparity in our dress. “Try not to deserve it.”
Her eyes widen. Then, to my surprise, she laughs. “I suppose the thatch was a mistake with all the fuel I kept about,” she says, as though I am impugning the design of her last workshop rather than the war machines she’d been building inside it. She pats the altar with one manicured hand. “Stone is more durable. Then again,” she adds, cocking her head. “I never needed all that fuel, did I?”
Her look is pointed, and I understand her meaning. But I’m not about to make it easy. “How should I know? I’m not a scientist.”
“No,” Xavier says. I can feel his stare like a boot on the back of my neck as he holds up the note I’d ensouled. “You’re a nécromancien.”
The word echoes in the sanctuary. Weeks ago, the accusation would have made me shudder, but there’s no denying it. Not when he holds the evidence in his hand. “Sounds like you should update my recherche.”
The general takes a quick breath, but before he can respond, Leo interjects. “That would have been a good way to get you shot on sight,” he says. “You’re wanted alive, no matter how Xavier glares.”
“It’s natural for your people to associate nécromancy with Le Trépas and his atrocities,” the general says, cutting Leo a look. “But we want to give you a chance to prove better than your blood.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting idea, General Legarde.”
Xavier opens his mouth to respond, but Theodora puts a hand on his arm—the gentlest warning. “Say what you will about our father,” she says softly, holding my gaze. “But he saved this country from yours.”
“That man is not my father.” My response is immediate, though her words send me reeling. It’s a hollow claim to them. I know it is. How can they understand what it means to have a father who chose you? My heart squeezes—is Papa awake by now? Has Akra told him what happened?
Xavier smirks, but Theodora lets it go. “Then you should have no problem helping our cause,” she says.
“You mean stealing the throne,” I say. “That was your father’s intention, anyway.”
“With the Boy King missing and Le Trépas in the shadows, we’re less concerned with stealing the throne than protecting it,” she says.
Leo makes a face. “And with the rebel forces growing, we need all the help we can get.”
The general barks at him. “Leonin!”
“Desolée, Xavi,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. But it’s true.”
“It’s classified!”
“Bien, of course. Desolée.” Leo lowers his eyes, though I don’t for a moment think he’s ashamed. The rebel forces growing . . . the armée is on shakier footing than the newspapers suggest. That must be why I’m here—no. That must be why Xavier and Theodora want me here.
What about Leo?
When I glance at him, he’s looking back at me, but I can’t exactly ask him now. Instead, I give the general my most infuriating smile. “You want me help you guard the throne with the magic your own father suppressed? I’m sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “But the old ways are forbidden.”
“Would you prefer Le Trépas bring them back?” Xavier steps closer, and the look on his face wipes the smile from my own. “When your priests fought your princes for power, it was your people who suffered. People like your mother. Or all your half-brothers and half-sisters, born and buried and raised as evil things. That is what my father suppressed.”
“The suffering didn’t stop when Legarde took power,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “The armée has killed far more Chakrans than Le Trépas ever did. Give me some of your war machines, if you like. Just keep in mind that what I create, I control.”
Xavier glances at Theodora; what is the look that passes between them? Leo frowns too. “I told you it wasn’t so easy,” he says, but Xavier grimaces.
“War is never easy, Leonin.”
“Neither is discovery,” Theodora says quietly—the silk to Xavier’s steel. “Fighting is not the only way to help protect the country, Jetta. I’ve studied what I can about nécromancy. Not just the interviews or the old reports. But the songs and the legends about the old ways. You probably know quite a few of those,” she adds with a little smile. “Considering you were also a shadow player. But you have something I don’t have.”
“What is that?”
“Practical experience.” The answer comes from Xavier. “And that’s what counts, with the enemy.”
I cock my head, trying to understand. “You want me to teach you about nécromancy?”
“As much as you know. After all, knowledge is power.” Theodora gestures at the papers spread on the altar. Armée interviews and old reports . . . the knowledge the Aquitans had kept from my own people.
“It is,” I say, staring at the papers. If La Fleur has been studying nécromancy, it’s possible she knows more than I do. The thought is galling. But is this my chance to learn?
My heart quickens. Is that why Leo brought me? After all, the rebellion will make best use of my skills if I know the extent of them. Deliberately, I avoid looking at him; out of the corner of my eye, I can tell he’s doing the same. “I
’ll help you,” I say slowly, as though I’m still considering it. Best not too seem too eager. “If you help me.”
To my surprise, Xavier laughs. “You need a bribe to protect your country? The more time I spend with you people, the more I understand the cliché of Chakran avarice.”
Is Leo gritting his teeth as hard as I am? Only half as hard, perhaps. Before either of us can protest, La Fleur holds up her hand. “What is it you want, Jetta?”
“The elixir,” I say.
“Is that all?” she replies. “I was going to make that a prerequisite of your staying. Where did I put that flask?”
“A prerequisite?” The thought hurts—as though I cannot be trusted any other way. But how can I protest, standing here in the ruins of my last outburst?
“I know the bottle you got from my father had a month’s worth. . . .” La Fleur rummages through the papers on her desk. The pages shift like mudslides. At last she unearths a curved metal bottle. The flask gleams dully in the light from the electric bulbs—the shine is gone in more ways than one. “This bottle contains about half that much, though I’m happy to refill it as we go. Your last dose must have been a week ago, is that right?”
“Only a couple of days.” When she raises an eyebrow, I elaborate. “When I ran low, I started taking smaller doses.”
“That might have saved you the worst of it,” she says. “Still, while you’re here, be sure you don’t miss any.”
Even in the humid cocoon of the carcan, her words chill me. “What do you mean, the worst of it?”
“My father didn’t tell you?” She lifts a brow. “The immediate effects of stopping the treatment can be worse than never starting it in the first place.”
The words take a moment to sink in, but when they do, they drop all the way down, through my gut, to my knees, leaving them weak. “Effects?”
“The mania worsens for a while. The melancholy too. My uncle stopped his treatment once, thinking he was cured. Two weeks later, the servants caught him trying to hang himself.” At her words, Leo tenses. His sister notices, softening her tone. “It won’t take more than a few days for the elixir to build up in your blood. But in the meantime, tell me if you have any concerning thoughts.”
Is that pity on her face? Anger rises like bile. Would I have started the treatment if I’d known? I don’t know, I don’t know. This complicates matters—surely I’m not going to stay at Hell’s Court forever. But what will happen when it comes time to leave? It isn’t only nécromancy I’ll need to learn about while I’m here. Is the formula for the elixir somewhere in Theodora’s pile of papers?
A soft voice interrupts my thoughts, making all of us turn. “Pardon me, Miss Theodora.”
“Camreon!” She straightens up, blinking rapidly at the worker—another Chakran, I’m pleased to see. He has stepped so softly in his armée boots that I hadn’t noticed him coming. Or is it his deferential posture that let him sneak up on us? He bobs his head at Theodora, almost obsequious, and my initial joy twists into disgust. But of course any Chakran still employed by the armée would need to keep his head down. Especially in this cursed place.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he murmurs, bowing even lower than respect would dictate. Then he waves a hand toward the archway, where two soldiers look on. “But you and the general are expected at the palace soon.”
“Already?” Theodora hesitates, as though she wants to argue, but Xavier nods.
“The advisers will be eager for an update, no?”
“You have good news to share,” Leo says. Then he plucks the flask out of Theodora’s hand. “In the meantime, I’ll get Jetta settled into her room.”
“Her room?” The general laughs, without humor. “You must mean her cell. You had the right idea about the prison ship—”
“She’s not a prisoner, Xavier.”
“She’s not a guest, either!”
“That what it’s like in the armée, ness pas?” Leo’s smile is brief; I recognize the look in his eye. He’s talking fast now, trying to broker his deal. “She should stay here, with the rest of the corps of engineers. Makes it easier for Theodora to work, considering her schedule.”
“Leonin . . .” Xavier takes a breath, but now I know my role.
“Stay here? In Hell’s Court?” I put a tremor in my voice. “No. Take me to the prison ship instead.”
“I don’t think a ship full of dying men is the best place for a nécromancien,” Leo says pointedly. “There’s a bed made up for you on the west hall. Have you slept at all recently? I won’t even ask if you’ve bathed.”
Though his touch is gentle when he pushes me forward, I stumble as though he had shoved me—the general deserves a show. “If I’d known you were coming, I could have prepared,” I say over my shoulder.
“With a nicer dress?” Leo smirks.
“With a better hiding place.”
Leo opens his mouth to retort, but Xavier interrupts. “Arret! Wait.”
It’s barely imperceptible—the way Leo stiffens. I too hide my disappointment. We have nearly reached the relative privacy of the hall, and there are a hundred questions trapped under my tongue. I bite them back as Xavier approaches. The smile Leo gives him is casual. “Don’t you have somewhere more important to be?”
“There is nothing more important than being my brother’s keeper,” Xavier replies. “I know you have our father’s weakness for a pretty face.”
“Ah yes.” Leo’s smile remains, but I know him well enough to see the tension of his jaw. “Too bad I never inherited my mother’s love for men in uniform.”
“I hope the girl doesn’t mind soldiers,” Xavier says, jerking his chin at me. “There will be two stationed outside her door. Why don’t you go, Leonin? I can handle her myself.”
“Bien,” Leo says, as if it doesn’t matter, though the smile is more of a grimace now. And indeed, the two men who had been waiting at the archway have joined us in the hall at the general’s gesture. Leo only passes Xavier the bottle of elixir and makes a little bow. “Au revoir.”
The words echo in my memory—as does his defense. Not goodbye. Until we meet again.
I follow Xavier through Hell’s Court in prickly silence.
It was the east side of the temple that had borne the brunt of the destruction; here in the west, the rooms that line the passageway are mostly intact. Originally, they had been monks’ chambers, but after La Victoire, when the temple was converted to a prison, they had been used as offices for guards and questioneurs. Now they house Theodora’s various workers: engineers, chemists, machinists. All of them Aquitan, aside from the one I’d seen earlier. But that’s no surprise, here in Hell’s Court.
Most of the heavy teak doors are still shut this early, but a few stand ajar. In them, I catch glimpses of clean beds, drafting tables, even books. One of the occupants, seated at a desk, catches my gaze, staring back with frank curiosity. His blue eyes make me shudder.
Midway down the hall, we find it: an empty room. Unlived in. But it seems cozy at first glance. There is a soft bed on a low stone platform, a gauzy mosquito net, a little table with a pitcher of water and a washcloth—even a lamp and a book of armée matches. Best of all, some fresh clothing: a set of green coveralls of the sort La Fleur was wearing. Simple things, but a luxury after weeks in the slum—I am excruciatingly aware of the dust and oil that coat my brow, of the greasy coils of my tangled hair. Still, I hesitate on the threshold. “Can you take the carcan off, please?”
Xavier puts his hand over the buckles at the small of my back. “Get in first.”
“In?” I swallow. “To the cell?”
“To the room my brother prepared, with so much foresight.”
I wet my lips; my mouth is so dry. The last time I’d entered one of these cells, it was as a prisoner. Despite the recent homey touches, the room is still small and square and made of stone, with a window too small to fit through and a teak door thicker than my wrist.
Steeling myself, I take a deep
breath, but suddenly the air is thick with the smell of filth and decay; for a brief moment, the silence cracks with the sound of a stranger screaming. Sweat prickles my skin . . . I clench my gloved fists—but my next panicked breath is clear and fresh, and as soon as it started, the screaming had stopped. I glance at the general out of the corner of my eye. By the quizzical look on his face, I can tell the sounds and smells are only in my head.
“The elixir,” I say, my voice trembling. “Please.”
Grimacing, he unscrews the cap, as though the request is distasteful. Shame blooms in my chest as he holds the bottle to my lips. I drink, but the general’s look makes me feel exposed, and I have to fight the urge to spit the treatment back in his face.
I swallow it down with my anger as he puts the cap back on the elixir and sets it down by the pillow. Just where his brother put it the first time—along with the note. Au revoir. He had signed it Leo Rath Legarde—his Chakran mother’s last name, and the name he shares with Xavier. Suddenly, doubt pools in my chest. If I’m hallucinating smells and screaming, can I trust the signals I think Leo has been sending? His relationship with his father was complicated at best. Is the truth that the old general’s death pushed him back toward his family? “When did Leo come to you?”
“Quiet, cha.”
The slur takes me aback. “Do you call your brother the same thing?”
“You’re not the only one trying to be better than your blood. Get in,” he adds, shoving me into the room, and when I stumble, it is not an act.
But as I catch my footing, my stomach twists. I turn back toward the doorway as the soldiers take up positions on either side of it. When Xavier raises a hand to the slam the door shut, I can’t help it. “Leave it open!” My voice is so loud in the enclosed space. I take a breath, trying to slow my heart. “Please.”
His blue eyes narrow, and for a moment, I’m sure he’ll close it, just to be cruel. But the general lowers his hand to brush the necklace he wears. Is his god a merciful one?
