A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

THEODORA: Look, Xavi, just because I’ve spent some time getting to know the people I work with—

  XAVIER: There are three dozen Aquitan engineers working on your ramp, and I find you eating curry with the two Chakrans?

  THEODORA: You prefer bacon that’s been marinating in bilge water for a week?

  XAVIER: I prefer the company of my kind.

  The general sighs.

  I don’t blame you for it, Theodora. You were even younger than I was when our mother went back to Aquitan. Of course the various women our father brought on as caretakers had an influence on you. Not to mention his constant visits to that cathouse.

  THEODORA: To Le Perl, you mean. The theater.

  XAVIER (ignoring her correction): So it’s natural, in a way. Your . . . fascination with the locals. And I know that you and Leo have always been close. But you must make a distinction between comfort and collaboration. We’re not all on the same side.

  THEODORA: But you and I are trying to be. Aren’t we?

  XAVIER: The nécromancien could help get us there. Especially now that we have the flying machines.

  THEODORA clenches her jaw.

  THEODORA: Pique told you about those too?

  XAVIER: I saw the bill of lading. How soon can you get the avions commissioned?

  THEODORA: I thought you called the fantouches abominations?

  XAVIER: Theodora—

  THEODORA: It won’t work. You heard her as well as I did. Her blood gives her control of the machinery.

  XAVIER: What if I use it to draw the symbol instead?

  THEODORA’s mouth drops open at his suggestion—so similar to the one she’d written in her notebook.

  Well?

  THEODORA: What makes you ask that?

  XAVIER: Have you tried it?

  THEODORA: Why are you reading my notebook?

  XAVIER: Why are you keeping secrets?

  THEODORA: They’re not secrets, they’re theories! Untested, I might add.

  XAVIER: Then test them! Our foothold here is tenuous at best, Theodora! If we lose control of the country, God knows who or what will take our place. I want an update this evening.

  THEODORA: It would help if I had my notebook back.

  XAVIER pulls it from his jacket, tossing it to her.

  XAVIER: Keep better care of it. Pique found it while he was here this morning.

  THEODORA: Where? On my desk?

  XAVIER: He didn’t mention. But he also saw the drawings of your fiancé.

  The general gives her a significant look. THEODORA opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, a scream splits the air. JETTA’s voice. Brother and sister look at each other for a moment; then XAVIER rips open the door and dashes into the hall, followed closely by THEODORA.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pounding feet—people running—someone is screaming—is it me? With a strike like a punch to my shoulders, the general shoves me away from the iron grate. As I stumble backward, he kicks the outer door shut with a clang. “Putain, Theodora, you should have known better than to trust her!”

  La Fleur is just behind him. She draws a handkerchief out of her pocket, using it to pluck the ring of keys from the noxious puddle on the floor and lock the heavy door. But what is the look in her eyes? Not disgust. Regret? Guilt? Fear? “You sound like Pique,” she says to her brother.

  “He was right, wasn’t he?” Xavier grabs me by the wrist, wrenching me around to see my audience: when had they appeared? The guards from outside my room . . . Camreon too, and a few of the other engineers. They must have come running when they’d heard my screams. The general yanks me around again, his face pale with rage. “What were you doing in there?”

  “I thought I would find my elixir,” I pant. I can hardly breathe, much less speak. My fingers tingle; there is a roaring in my ears. “You told me he escaped!”

  “We only printed it on your recherche,” Theodora corrects me, but she has the good grace to look ashamed. Still, Xavier turns to her, incredulous.

  “You don’t need to justify yourself to her, Theodora!”

  My laugh is a wild thing, bouncing off the stone walls. “And you claim you can’t trust me?”

  “I think it’s clear I’ve been too lenient with everyone,” the general growls. “How did she get the keys?”

  Theodora’s response is pointed. “Probably the same way Pique got my notebook.”

  “You should never have let her out of the carcan,” he shoots back. Then he narrows his eyes, turning back to me. “But since you are, we might as well see what you can do. Where is the note you wrote to the Tiger? Summon it.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a hiss as he twists my arm. The bones of my wrist creak in his grasp. “Come,” I whisper, and soon enough, I catch sight of the dirty recherche, fluttering toward us in the hall.

  What does he want with it? The general snatches the scrap out of the air as he drags me, stumbling, toward the flying machine. Theodora frowns, following him. “Xavier—”

  But the general ignores her, calling to one of his men. “Alec! Your lighter!”

  One of the guards steps forward, but I cannot stop staring at the sleek wings of Theodora’s invention. Is Xavier foolish enough to let me ensoul the thing? I do not protest as he nicks my finger with the knife at his belt: here is my freedom before me. I can already imagine the flame pouring from the twin barrels on the front. I will raze the place to the ground—Le Trépas too. The general is mad himself, to think I won’t. But to my surprise, he curls his lip and dips his own finger in the blood on mine. Then he pushes me into the waiting arms of the guard. “Hold her.”

  The soldat obeys, digging his hands into the flesh of my arm. But I stare at Xavier, half mesmerized as he lifts his hand. Still, he hesitates. On his face is a look of distaste—not at my blood, but for the magic it holds.

  Behind me, Theodora shifts on her feet. Her face is troubled as she stares at the avion—the metal wings, the hooked beak. “If it doesn’t work—”

  The general lifts his clean hand sharply, cutting her short. But he takes hold of the medallion at his neck, whispering a prayer to his own god before he paints the symbol on the leather wing. Then he wipes the blood from his hand as though it carries a curse.

  As he holds my note to the Tiger over the flame, I tense, ready to leap to the flying machine. As the soul spirals up and flashes into her new skin, I whisper to her: “Fly.”

  The avion only shudders, shaking her wings. Xavier gives me a look. “Fly,” he repeats grimly, and the bird spreads her wings.

  They beat—once, twice—the wind moving through my hair. I feel dizzy as the machine begins to lift from the stone. Surely it is a mistake. The soul only hesitated—she was late to obey the command I gave. But Xavier puts his hand out to stop her, and the machine drops down and folds her wings.

  Then he turns to me, and the look on his face is less triumphant than resigned. “Theodora, have your men unbox the rest of the shipment on the plaza. Jean, send for the armée docteur,” he adds, turning to the second guard. Then he points to Camreon. “You. Go to the dovecotes and bring me all the messenger pigeons. And for god’s sake, someone put her back in her cell.”

  The threat jolts me into action. With a burst of strength born of panic, I pull free of the guard and run toward the far hall. A gunshot stops me—a crack like a snapped bone. “Consider,” Xavier says as I skid to a halt. “I don’t need you alive to take your blood.”

  I sway on my feet; when a guard prods me with his gun, I nearly tip over. As he marches me back to my room, my eyes dart left, then right, searching the corridor fruitlessly for a way to escape. But the general follows just behind me, as does Theodora, like a kite on a string.

  “Xavi, please.” Her tone is an attempt at calm. “You can’t rush these things.”

  “It’s been more than a month since Father was killed,” he says. “Long past time for action.”

  “But you’ve barely tested the first avion
! You don’t know if you can command two at once, much less fifty.”

  “I’ll order each bird to obey a handler,” Xavier replies.

  “But what if something happens to you?” she says, her voice rising with desperation. “If the whole flock is under your control, you’re a target for kidnapping, or worse.”

  “I’m already a target, Theodora.” He slows as we approach the door to my cell. “Any other excuses?”

  Anger flashes in La Fleur’s eyes. “They aren’t excuses, they’re concerns.”

  The guards push me through the open door, shutting it behind me; the jingle of keys in the lock makes my heart pound. Still, I can hear her through the heavy wood.

  “I’m trying to save you from making a mistake!”

  “I don’t need you to save me, Theodora. . . .” Xavier’s voice fades down the hall. I try the door, just in case, but it is definitely locked. Dare I open it with the hawk’s soul in the flyer Leo had sent me? No—the guards will be right outside and I have no way to fight past them. Better to get a message to him—or to my brother. Unless . . . “Akra?” I whisper the name at first, but there is no answer. “Akra!”

  My voice echoes in the stone cell, and despair rises in my heart. Maybe it really was a hallucination.

  Still, I have a way to get him a message. Pulling the flyer from my pocket, I cast about for something to use as a writing utensil, but there is nothing in the room. I check the lamp for ash, but I’ve never lit the wick. Then my heart skips a beat—what about the book of matches?

  Striking one at a time and waiting for them to cool, I use the ash like a crude pencil. I cannot write much—X ENSOULED MACHINE, NEW PLAN? But between my message and the flyer itself, Akra will surely be able to guess that something has gone wrong. But before I can finish the letter, the keys jingle in the lock once again.

  Hurriedly, I shove the paper into my pocket moments before the door opens. A stranger stands there, sweating in a foreign suit. “The docteur,” Xavier announces as he follows the man into the room. Then the general wrinkles his nose at the sulfur smell of the matches, glancing at the scattered sticks on the stone floor. I bite back a curse as he picks up what’s left of the matchbook and puts it in his own pocket. He only gives me a look. “Sit.”

  I have little choice. The docteur sets his leather case beside me on the pillow. My heart pounds as he unbuckles the clasps and rummages inside. Then he draws a long needle from his case.

  At first I think he means to take my blood with it. Instead, he pushes half a dram of cold liquid into the crook of my arm. My stomach drops as my head starts to float. My eyes are fluttering as the doctor draws a thin lancet out of his case; it’s so sharp I don’t even feel the cut. Blood runs down my forearm: a red river into a glass jar. The smell sickens me . . . iron and soil. When the jar is full, the docteur hands it to Xavier and bandages the wound. The general carries the jar away—toward the sanctuary, toward the waiting avions. As my eyes slide shut, I can’t tell if I am dreaming when I hear the sound of wings beating.

  Act 1,

  Scene 14

  Night at Hell’s Court. In the plaza outside, the electric bulbs are blazing, and extra torches have been lit for the workers still disassembling the crates. THEODORA is watching over her engineers, her face grim, her arms folded. But the sanctuary is practically deserted. Only XAVIER is there, leaning against the altar on which the glass jar rests, wrapped in a clean white handkerchief and brimming with clotting blood.

  The sounds of work drift in from the plaza, but XAVIER is very still. For a while, he contemplates the stone floor where his father died. Then he looks up, searching, as though he can see the stars through the armée green canvas of the roof.

  XAVIER: Holy Father in heaven, sacred and glorious, your will be done on earth and in heaven.

  His voice falters. He takes a breath as he searches for the right words.

  XAVIER: Guide my footsteps, oh my God, on this shadowed path, and reveal to me why you have brought the nécromancien under my control.

  He closes his eyes, bowing his head again.

  Am I meant to use her blood to do your will, or am I putting my soul in peril by participating in dark magic? Give me a sign, my Lord. Show me the way.

  THEODORA (off-stage): Xavi?

  The general opens his eyes, blinking, as THEODORA comes to the entrance of the temple. If anything, her expression is even more sour than before.

  XAVIER: Yes?

  THEODORA: Pique is here.

  XAVIER (frowning): Why?

  THEODORA: God only knows.

  The general’s hand travels to his medallion as he follows his sister outside. Indeed, LIEUTENANT PIQUE has arrived, pushing a handcart stacked with bamboo cages. Each one holds a dark gray pigeon. Wings rustle as golden eyes peer from the depths. The general looks from the birds to PIQUE and back.

  XAVIER: I asked one of the engineers to fetch the birds.

  PIQUE takes a breath, choosing his response carefully. When he speaks, his tone is crisp—respectful. So different than before.

  PIQUE: As quartier-maître, I’m in charge of supplies. It was my duty to make sure you got the pigeons. And as you know, the . . . engineer in question has already misplaced several boxes.

  THEODORA: And found them again.

  PIQUE raises an eyebrow.

  PIQUE: That’s news to me.

  La Fleur frowns, but PIQUE presses on.

  Speaking of news, sir, rumor is you plan to create a special force to fight by air. As the most experienced officer in Chakrana, I’d like to be considered to lead it.

  The general blinks at the man.

  XAVIER: You?

  PIQUE draws himself up.

  PIQUE: I’ve spent nearly two decades traversing this country. I know it north to south. When you’re a hundred feet above the jungle, you can’t spend time peering at a map. And not only am I the most experienced officer in the country, but with Fontaine gone, I’m also the only man above sergeant in Nokhor Khat. Aside from you, sir. And we can’t risk you.

  The general looks at THEODORA.

  XAVIER: My sister said much the same thing.

  La Fleur’s eyes narrow; she speaks under her breath.

  THEODORA: I didn’t say to share command with Pique.

  The general turns to her sharply.

  XAVIER: I don’t follow your orders.

  THEODORA: But you’ll follow his?

  She glares at PIQUE, speaking through her teeth. XAVIER’s reply is stiff.

  XAVIER: I’ll follow God’s.

  THEODORA: And what are God’s orders now?

  XAVIER: I’m still trying to figure that out.

  The general takes a deep breath, and turns back to PIQUE.

  One question, Quartier-Maître. What makes you volunteer? Is it service to the armée? Or glory for yourself?

  PIQUE hesitates, considering his answer.

  PIQUE: It’s salvation, sir.

  XAVIER: You’ve never seemed like a godly man to me.

  PIQUE: I don’t know much about God, sir. But I know about Chakrana. This country needs saving, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Are you?

  A pause.

  XAVIER: Yes. Yes, I am. Lieutenant?

  PIQUE straightens up at the title, saluting sharply.

  PIQUE: General, sir?

  XAVIER: Unload the cages. Put one by each avion. I’ll bring the blood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When I wake, it is from a dream: it is the dry season, and I am eight years old. Akra is teaching me how to work the puppet of a butterfly as we roll down the road on our way to a show. The roulotte is rocking under us, and the sweet smell of rumdal floats in on the breeze.

  Akra holds the wire; on the end is a little scrap of mulberry paper, trembling with the tiny motions of his hand. He is so good with the fantouches—gentle and steady. But when I take it from him, the wire bends in my hands. The fantouche falls, and I try to catch it. Instead, I crush it in my fist.

&nb
sp; When I open my eyes, it is dark. How long have I slept? I blink, still nauseated. Is it the blood loss or the lingering effect of the drugs? Is it the theft of my blood itself? My hand goes to the bandage tied around my elbow—the memory makes my skin crawl. The dark red liquid in the clean glass jar, the stink of iron threaded with the stench of sulfur . . .

  I take a deep breath, trying to clear it, and hear the crinkling of paper. Frowning, I slip my free hand beneath the pillow and find a whole stack of it.

  My heart pounds along with my head as I pull out the book of souls—the rest of the flyers, sewn together with red ribbon. Laying the book on my lap, I flip through the pages: here, the soul of a friendly dog that used to belong to our neighbor, and here, the soul of an armée horse that I’d found running through a rice field. The playful soul of a lemur from the jungle up the hill behind our village, a multitude of birds.

  The pages rustle; I hug them tight to my chest. Old friends in this deathly place—and more than that. I had not imagined my brother’s voice, and nothing can stand between us now. The locks are no obstacle—nor are the walls, if it comes to that. I could destroy the whole workshop by slipping spirits into the columns along the halls—or the bricks of Le Trépas’s cell. And this time, I would make sure the old monk was killed in the collapse.

  In fact, I could kill him now—burst through the door with one soul, bend the bars with another—if I was brave enough to touch him. To wrap my hands around his neck.

  What am I thinking? I shudder, appalled at the violence I feel. With Legarde, I had rationalized my actions as my malheur—as a choice made on the spur of a terrible moment. Could I go so far as to plan out a murder? To open Le Trépas’s door again, to walk into the cell where the old monk sits, to . . . to . . .

  My mind balks. I don’t want to see him again, much less wrench his soul from his body. Perhaps it is best to focus on my own escape. What time is it? I squint through the window, but though it is dark, I cannot see the moon. I don’t have time to dawdle.

  I have to get out—but how? The flying machine is no longer an option. Did my brother and Leo have another plan? Slowly, I stand, making sure I am steady on my feet. Then I try the door. To my surprise, it is unlocked, and though the guards hold their bayonets a little tighter when they see me, they don’t bother to hide the bottle they’ve been passing. “What’s the time?” I ask carefully, but Jean only shrugs.