by Heidi Heilig
“That’s the lytheum. The kerosene in the jar keeps it safe from humidity,” Leo says. “Unless someone chops off a piece, drops it in a can of river water, and lights the resulting gas on fire. I should have been watching more closely,” he adds apologetically.
“It’s not your fault,” I say, holding the jar close—protective. The weight of it is a comfort to me. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have any of it.”
“I promised I would help you.” Leo brings his hand up to cover mine, and his voice is protective too. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, and there is something warm in my belly—a familiar feeling . . . magnetic . . . and as strong as if we hadn’t spent any time apart. As though he’d never left in the first place. But he had. And standing there with the jar in my hand, I can’t help but wonder why he only came back once he knew I would have the elixir—and what would he do when I ran out.
“Thank you,” I say, but the words are stilted. His own face falls, and after an excruciating moment, I draw my hand back and return to the deck to be alone.
Act 2,
Scene 20
A ruined berth, the walls peeling and spotted with mildew. The door has been pulled from the frame, along with all the other trimmings and trappings, leaving only a small window to decorate the room. THEODORA stares out through it, watching the shore sliding by.
In the hall outside, CAMREON approaches, tapping softly with a knuckle against the doorframe. THEODORA doesn’t turn from the window.
THEODORA: Why do you knock at an open door?
CAMREON: I miss when we pretended to be civil.
THEODORA: I was never pretending.
La Fleur sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose, as though fending off a headache.
The worst part is, I know you’re right. I knew what the armée did with my inventions, but I kept going anyway.
CAMREON: Why did you?
THEODORA: Maybe it was inertia. An object in motion staying in motion. When I was younger, I thought I was helping Chakrana. After all, I was going to marry the king.
CAMREON: You did help. Where else could I have learned so much about explosives?
THEODORA snorts.
THEODORA: Yes. You’ve always been my most unbalancing force.
A smile whisks across CAMREON’s face, then vanishes.
CAMREON: I’ll take that as a compliment. But I don’t believe your behavior was mere mechanics. You care about your brother. You don’t want him to fail.
THEODORA: Does he have to lose for you to win?
The Tiger sighs, shaking his head.
CAMREON: That’s the problem with you Aquitans. You think peace requires victory.
THEODORA: I don’t.
CAMREON: He does. And as long as he’s trying to win, the fight will continue.
THEODORA throws her hands in the air, frustrated.
THEODORA: What’s your endgame, then? Rounding all of us up and marching us into the Hundred Days Sea?
CAMREON: We could use the prison ship.
That faint smile returns.
But you misunderstand me, Theodora. Peace doesn’t require the Aquitans to leave. It only requires you to surrender.
THEODORA: Surrender . . . what? Land? Money?
CAMREON: Control. Power.
THEODORA: To who? Raik?
She laughs, short and bitter.
He’ll be just as bad a king as your father was.
The Tiger goes still.
CAMREON: Careful what you say.
THEODORA: I’m not the only one precious about my brother.
CAMREON: I have respect for the king.
THEODORA: And what if his leadership paves the way for Le Trépas to return to power?
CAMREON: That’s a daring accusation, knowing you’ve considered harnessing his power for yourself.
THEODORA raises an eyebrow.
THEODORA: It’s your own religion.
CAMREON: Le Trépas twisted it through a foreign lens. There was balance before the Aquitans came. Now your people and mine see death as vengeance. It’s only when you put up your white flag that we can put down our weapons.
THEODORA: And that’s when you kill us, I suppose.
CAMREON: Why would we kill our queen?
La Fleur stares at him.
THEODORA: You actually expect me to marry Raik.
CAMREON: You’d be safe from being marched into the sea.
THEODORA: What about Xavier? Can he stay too?
CAMREON: That’s up to the general.
THEODORA wets her lips, unsure.
THEODORA: We should go back to Nokhor Khat. I can talk to him, Cam.
CAMREON: Or he could have me questioned and shot.
THEODORA: I won’t let him do that.
CAMREON: You’ve been so sanguine about your father’s plan to kill Raik. What makes me different?
THEODORA hesitates—the admission is difficult.
THEODORA: I never loved Raik.
CAMREON closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and hanging his head before he sighs.
CAMREON: I know. But I do. He’s the only family I have left.
When he looks up again, his smile is sad.
Though if negotiations go well for a marriage treaty, I look forward to gaining a sister.
Chapter Twenty-One
The shore slides by as we move up the coast, a patchwork of gold sand and green jungle during the day, and a black-and-blue backdrop at night. Though the sea is calm, the rain continues in typical seasonal fashion. Despite the grim conditions of the erstwhile dining hall and the closeness of the quarters, the space is oddly cozy in a downpour. Above, drops pound the deck like a drummer; the wind hisses on the water like it used to in the mango tree outside my old window. On days like this we would gather inside, working on fantouches or costumes—me, Akra, Papa, and Maman. She would play the bird flute, and Papa used to sing.
But Maman is not here, and these days, Papa is silent. Still, music follows him; I find him with Tia, and she is humming a little tune from Le Perl. Papa sits in the wheeled chair I liberated for him, and to my surprise, he is working on one of the armrests with a knife.
Under the steel blade, a carving of a flower is taking shape. It is cruder than the work he used to do: the rich carvings on our wooden fantouches, or the fine scrollwork on the roulotte he built—the roulotte we burned on our long trek to Nokhor Khat. Is the plainness of the work due to his simple tools, or his missing fingers? Still, there is grace to the petals as they emerge from the polished wood. “Will you decorate the whole thing?”
Papa only shrugs, but Tia tilts her head. “Not all at once, certainly.” She runs a gentle hand over her close-cropped hair. “He’s promised me a comb when I get back to my wigs.”
I smile at the girl—grateful for her grace, and guilty too. I should have been the one coaxing my father to return to his art. “When will that be?”
“As soon as we get to the Coffret,” Tia says. “When Cheeky and I parted ways outside of Nokhor Khat, she was generous enough to cart away all my pretty things. For my safety, she said, but if she doesn’t give them back, she’ll be the one in danger.”
“And Maman?” I press. “She’s there too?”
“Cheeky promised to look after her,” Tia says. “Meliss seemed eager to get away from Nokhor Khat.”
“Ah.” Deliberately, I keep my eyes on Papa—on his work. I do not turn to look toward the back of the ship, where Le Trépas lurks. Though I know why Maman wanted to run, and it has nothing to do with Nokhor Khat. What will she do when we arrive at the camp with the old monk in tow? I don’t dare ask Papa.
He too prefers to ignore the man sitting in chains on the other side of the boat, but I don’t know if he’s pretending or only lost in his art. His hand moves in small, precise gestures; little curls of wood drop to the musty carpet. But as I watch, I can imagine the chair when it is done—a lacy, graceful thing, even more beautiful than the roulotte was.
Suddenly my own hands a
re itching with the need to create. “There must be tools there at the rebel base,” I say softly. “Maybe when we get there, you and I could work together.”
“Do you expect to have spare time?” Camreon’s voice floats across the hall. He has taken up a position near La Fleur, and I can’t quite tell if he’s guarding her or keeping her company. “Art must wait for war.”
“I know,” I say, still watching Papa work. What would I be creating instead? How will my fantouches change when they are made for defense instead of display? In my mind, I conjure up a fantastical armée: something even larger than the mechanical birds, ensouled with an eagle’s spirit, to hunt them out of the sky. Or something smaller—like a mosquito—though instead of drawing out blood, it could draw out the accelerant. But leather and bamboo are no match for fire and steel. And out in the jungle, metalworks are in short supply. I chew my lip. “Do the rebels have the resources to make weaponry?”
“Raik is the one overseeing the supplies,” Cam says, making a face. “I’m sure he has ideas, but they’ll be much improved by your own. He’s never been one for working with his hands.”
I can’t help but glance at Theodora. “Will she help too?”
“She can’t hurt,” Theodora interjects drily.
“Speaking of Raik . . .” Cam lifts his hand. In it is a piece of red cloth. He must have torn it from the sail. “Can you send him a letter?”
I come to his side, reaching for the fabric. “What does it say?”
He gives me a look. “It says, ‘I wrote this in old Chakran so no one but my brother could read it.’”
“Old Chakran?” My eyebrows go up—I unfold the letter, peering at the writing.
“It’s an update,” Cam says, taking pity. “Remember, Raik was expecting you and Le Trépas on the wing. Instead, he’s getting all of us weeks later by boat. Including La Fleur,” the Tiger adds, his smile falling again, though I am only half paying attention. “So he has some options to weigh.”
Despite his explanation, I can’t help but stare at the letter. Would Papa be able to read it? He’d studied the language in his youth, as had most people in his generation. But for those of us who grew up after La Victoire, the old ways were forbidden. “Where did you learn, Camreon?”
“When I was quite young, my caretakers hid me in the old temples,” he says. “Along with the rebels and the remaining monks. A lot of my bedtime stories were myths read from the carvings on the temple walls.”
“So were mine,” I say, remembering. “Myths, I mean. Of course, they were from shadow plays instead of temples.”
“That’s how the old stories survived after La Victoire,” Cam says. “Some of them, anyway. Most of the temple art is lost forever. And who knows what disappeared with the scrolls the Aquitans burned?”
The question is rhetorical, but an answer comes to mind: Le Trépas might. In my mind’s eye, I see the beautiful mysteries carved into the ceiling in Hell’s Court. Is that how the old monk had cultivated his powers? Interpreting old legends . . . daring to push the limits of what he knew, what he could do. I glance toward the back of the ship only to find that Le Trépas is looking right at me. My stomach drops. Had he heard my thoughts? Or just the conversation?
Quickly, I turn back to the letter in my hands, knotting the scrap of cloth in the center, so the two ends flare like wings. Then I reach into the satchel at my side, pulling out the book of souls, tattered and torn. Flipping through the pages, my brow furrows. “I’m out of birds . . . no, wait.” In my pocket is the folded flyer—the one I’d found tucked under my pillow. The one they’d meant me to use for the flying machine. “One left.”
“Good,” Camreon says, but my hands tighten on the paper.
“What if we need it for something more important?”
Cam cocks his head. “Can’t you get more?”
“Not with Le Trépas so close.”
“What about the ballast stones?” Theodora says. “You can take the souls from them.”
“We might need them for the avions. Besides, I don’t think we can make a fire hot enough.” I trail off, looking back at Le Trépas again. What was it he’d said about the avion yesterday? That I could pluck the souls out one by one . . . Le Trépas is rumored to kill at a touch. Is this a skill I really covet?
“Theodora,” I say at last. “Did Le Trépas ever say how he pulled souls out of bodies?”
“No,” she replies, curling her lip. “But he liked to offer to show us.”
I shudder, Papa’s warning still ringing in my ears: stay away. “What about the translations, Cam? Did they say anything about . . . about killing at a touch?”
“Symbols and blood,” he says. “The stories are just that. Stories. Not instruction manuals. Send the letter,” he adds then. “It’s important.”
My eyes narrow. “I thought it was just an update.”
The Tiger gives me a look. “I may be the leader of the rebellion, but Raik is still the king. He’ll be expecting word.”
With a sigh, I turn to the little cookfire, readying my pin. But as I transfer the hawk’s soul to Camreon’s note, my eyes drift back to Akra and Le Trépas. The flame rises, the ash curls, the spirit flashes into her new skin. It would be more than useful to be able to do these things without fire.
Whispering instructions to the spirit, I release the note, watching it spiral upward into the pale sunlight streaming through a hole in the deck. Then I turn my attention to Papa. He is still lost in his work. Curls of wood fall around him like petals. Would he notice if I ignored his warning?
The thought itself feels like a betrayal—of him, of Maman. Of myself. But I had risked so much to learn about my powers from Theodora. Isn’t it worthwhile to try to learn from one of her sources? Giving Papa one last glance, I stand, the muscles in my legs twinging, and make my way across the room.
At the back of the ship is an open hole that used to be a glassed-in balcony. The glass is long gone, but the balcony remains, overlooking the shimmering wake of our passing. Le Trépas sits cross-legged on the carpet, facing the sea; his arms are in the carcan, wrapped around his belly, and his fetters are locked to a beam. No chance of him escaping. Especially with no souls about. Akra too is gazing out at the water. And though the mildewed carpet muffles my footsteps, I can tell by the shift in my brother’s shoulders that he knows I am behind him.
Is it his time in the armée that made him so perceptive? Or is it what I did at Hell’s Court? Perhaps I should ask Le Trépas that too. But it is the old monk who speaks first. “Come where we can see you, girl. You have such a pretty face.”
“Teh-twa,” Akra says softly to the monk. Le Trépas’s demand only makes my lip curl; I do not move from where I stand. My brother folds his arms. “What do you want, Jetta?”
“To talk to Le Trépas.”
Now Akra turns, looking at me askance. “Why?”
“He mentioned a way to pull the souls out of the avions,” I say, trying to keep the defensive tone out of my voice. “I’d like to know what it is.”
Akra’s eyebrows go up, but Le Trépas replies. “Without dying, you mean?” I can hear the smile in the old monk’s voice. “You’d need to get closer than the avions will allow.”
“Close enough to make a mark.” I flex my hands as he nods; my knuckles twinge, scarred and scabbed. Life and death—everything begins and ends with blood. “But what symbol?”
“You can’t guess?” Le Trépas sighs. “I had hoped you would be more clever.”
“It’s death, isn’t it?” The answer comes in a flash. The approval in his eyes aggravates me. I press my lips together, disappointed that I rose to the bait.
“Do you know what it looks like?”
“I do.” Maman had taught me the symbol of life, but the sign for death was something I’d only seen drawn in ash on the foreheads of the dead. These days, not everyone can afford enough dry wood to burn a corpse. The superstitious say that it’s to keep a restless spirit from sneaking back into
a body. Could it be so simple? The knowledge the Aquitans worked so hard to forbid, turned into a funeral rite? “And . . . will my blood work?”
“Try it and see,” Le Trépas says.
“Don’t,” Akra blurts out, his voice a touch too loud. Then he takes a breath, softening. “Don’t trust him, Jetta. He’s pulling your strings.”
“I’m trying to teach her,” Le Trépas protests. “She has a lot to do and little time to learn. Besides,” he adds with a pointed look at my brother. “You know better than most what happens when she acts in ignorance, on impulse.”
Akra stiffens, but I clench my teeth. Had the old monk somehow seen what had happened the night I killed Legarde? No . . . Theodora must have told him. “What sacred knowledge did you trade to the Aquitans for that little tidbit?”
Le Trépas only shrugs. “Nothing as sacred as a pint of your blood.”
My hand goes to the crook of my arm—the bruise there is fading, but the memory still haunts me. “Our blood,” I say softly. “The blood you would have killed me for sharing.”
“Better you than all those people in the slums,” he says.
“Teh-twa,” Akra says, louder now, but I grit my teeth.
“This, from a child killer?” I growl.
“Their deaths served a purpose,” the monk says. “That’s all any of us can ever hope for when the time comes. There will be plenty of blood on your own hands before it’s done, Jetta. Pray that it’s more of theirs than ours.”
There is a sour taste on the back of my tongue. It makes me want to spit. “I serve the rebellion. Not your bitter god.”
“My god? Oh, Jetta.” Le Trépas’s laugh is full and rich, and loud enough to be infuriating. “You don’t serve the King of Death.”
I clench my jaw—I don’t want to ask. Everything in me tells me to turn, to walk away, to not give him the satisfaction of the question. No . . . not everything. “What do you mean?”
“Death begets life,” he says. “You serve the Maiden. Though not very well.”
