A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

  Act 2,

  Scene 24

  XAVIER’s office at the barracks. The general toys with a pen. On his desk is his brother’s letter, fluttering weakly, pinned to the scarred wood with a letter opener. There is a piece of paper beside it—a letter in response, along with what’s left of the jar of blood—but XAVIER hasn’t gotten past the first words: “Dear Leonin . . .”

  A knock at the door, and the general stirs, wincing at the twinge in his knee. He has been sitting here for quite some time.

  XAVIER: Yes?

  The adjutant peeks in.

  ADJUTANT: Lieutenant Pique, sir.

  The general pulls the letter opener out of the wood and stuffs the note in his pocket. Then he flips over the sheet of paper and nods. At the gesture, the adjutant ushers PIQUE into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  XAVIER: Reportez.

  PIQUE: The second sortie has just returned. This time, the rebels had explosives. We lost three pilots, and one of the avions.

  The general’s jaw tightens as he curses.

  XAVIER: Putain.

  PIQUE: Evidence carried back in the empty avions shows the devices were somewhat sophisticated, considering the supplies they had to work with. Your sister’s work, most likely.

  The general looks up sharply.

  XAVIER: Are you implying my sister is a traitor?

  PIQUE: No, sir. After all, the last I saw, the Tiger was holding her at gunpoint. But this does illuminate how far the rebels are willing to go. Sir . . .

  As the lieutenant trails off, XAVIER narrows his eyes.

  XAVIER: Spit it out.

  PIQUE: I know there will be . . . serious casualties, but if we burn the ship, we could take out the Tiger and the nécromanciens at the same time. It would also prevent La Fleur from being further used by the rebels.

  The general clenches his jaw.

  XAVIER: My sister is not a “casualty.”

  PIQUE: As you say, sir.

  The answer frustrates the general. He slaps his hand on the map and stands, an accusation in his eyes.

  XAVIER: You said if we made it too costly to keep her, they’d bring her back.

  PIQUE: The price is higher than I imagined, General. But I’m happy to increase the sorties. We’ll have to, once the rebels go to ground.

  XAVIER: We can’t burn the whole country, Pique.

  PIQUE: I don’t like it any more than you do. But if the rebels won’t hand her over, we risk losing them all in the jungle.

  The general glances back down at the map, chewing his lip.

  XAVIER: We should have someone following them by air.

  PIQUE: Not with the way the nécromancien can attack.

  XAVIER: I would risk it. I should be the one going after her.

  PIQUE: Your father trusted you to lead the armée, General. Not to chase down your sister.

  XAVIER: It was easier when he was in charge.

  The general glances out the window to the courtyard below. It used to echo with the sound of drills: men preparing to deploy, sergeants shouting at their platoons. Now it is empty—the soldiers have been sent to hold the sugar fields in La Sucrier, where they are spread much too thin.

  PIQUE takes a breath in the silence—cautious. Hopeful.

  PIQUE: With permission, sir?

  A silence.

  XAVIER: What is it?

  PIQUE: I can’t presume to know what your father would advise if he were here now. But I did serve with him for many years, and saw him make good use of the questioneurs.

  XAVIER narrows his eyes, but PIQUE presses on.

  I know that you indulged your sister’s request to have them reassigned, but your father had a firmer hand. And if we can get an idea of where the Tiger is headed, we can concentrate our forces.

  Another silence.

  XAVIER: Take care of it.

  PIQUE: Yes, sir.

  The lieutenant smiles, pleased. Then a knock comes at the door. Frustrated, Xavier answers.

  XAVIER: What?

  The adjutant enters, a folder in his hand.

  ADJUTANT: A letter for you, sir.

  XAVIER: A letter?

  The general glances at the note on his desk—the response he is still trying to pen. Frowning, the general takes the folder, flipping it open.

  XAVIER: From Aquitan? I wasn’t expecting a ship.

  ADJUTANT: It came by avion, sir. The one Lieutenant Pique sent to Lephare. It’s returned.

  XAVIER: Ah. Thank you.

  With a salute, the adjutant exits. Xavier opens the wax seal on the letter and reads. The lieutenant watches the general’s face as his frown eases into a look of relief.

  PIQUE: Sir?

  XAVIER: From my uncle. Recruitment is up. We can expect reinforcements within two weeks.

  PIQUE: That’s good news, sir.

  XAVIER: It’s a gift.

  XAVIER’s hand goes to the medallion on his necklace.

  Or a sign.

  PIQUE: Sir.

  The general looks sharply at PIQUE, but the lieutenant returns his gaze frankly. XAVIER drops his hand to his desk. Plucking up the unfinished note, he crushes it in his fist and tosses it into the wastebasket in the corner.

  XAVIER: I want daily reports on the intelligence.

  PIQUE: Yes, sir.

  PIQUE salutes and exits to find the questioneurs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  We continue north, watching the sky with dread, but we reach the mouth of the Kai Lin—the Gods’ Tears—without seeing another flock. It is late afternoon when La Rêve tucks herself into the calm waters of the quiet inlet. Though the bay is protected from the sea, there are no villages along the golden shore. Not anymore.

  The river got its name from the sapphires that used to litter the bed—stones the size of snails, and just as common. The Aquitans quickly snapped them from the water, then cored into the mountains looking for more. The runoff from their mines silted the bay, killing the coral that sheltered the fish. The villages soon went the same way. The landscape has long since been ceded to the jungle, though signs of habitation remain: an abundance of fruit trees, tangled and wild, the old walls of a mill nearly covered with bromeliads, the drooping lines of an abandoned telegraph.

  Initially, I had hoped we might ride the boat at least partway up the Kai Lin, but the silty riverbed is much too shallow. Besides, La Rêve would be quite visible from the air. Rather than leading the armée right to the rebel camp, we disembark on the shore of the bay. Keeping an eye on the sky, we unload as many tins as we can fit onto a tabletop I ensoul to carry them for us. When we have all our supplies ashore, I give the cracked hull one last pat and send the boat cruising slowly toward the Teeth. Then we sweep our footsteps from the beach as we retreat to the cover of the trees.

  The sand is difficult for Papa’s wheels—he opts to walk, leaning on me as Tia and Leo drag the chair up the shore. He is stronger now after our time at sea, where he’d been able to stroll slowly around the deck and work with his hands, far from the damp miasma of the slums. But he still sinks gratefully into the chair once he reaches it—the pain in his twisted leg is not something that fresh air and exercise can fix.

  As I open a can of soup for his dinner, Theodora’s suggestion returns to me—the one she’d made about the other aides à la mobilité. To fill them with a soul bound by the person using the aide. Would Papa want to ensoul his chair? He has never forbidden me from using my magic—not like Maman did. But it is blood magic, after all, and from the blood I share with a man he does not like or trust . . . with good reason.

  I could do it for him and tell it to obey his orders. The avions Xavier had ensouled seemed to listen to their handlers. But the thought makes me uneasy: better for Papa to have complete control. I page through the book of souls as I heat his soup. By the time the food is warm, I have found the perfect arvana. So I go to Papa, the tin in one hand and the flyer in the other.

  At first, I think he’s dozing, but when I approach, he sits
up straight, opening his eyes. “I brought some dinner,” I say, handing him the can. “And something else.”

  He only raises an eyebrow, looking first at me, then at the page.

  “It’s for your chair,” I say, so he doesn’t have to ask aloud. “The arvana will make it easier to lift and push. And if you use my blood to write the symbol, the soul will answer to your commands. It’s the one from our roulotte,” I add then, glancing down at the carved flower on the armrest of his chair. “A dog’s spirit. Loyal and friendly.”

  Papa takes a sip from the can, as though to cover his hesitation, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. Is he squeamish about the blood? About the nécromancy itself? He does not say, but after some consideration, he nods. Almost eagerly, I pull the pin from my hem. Papa balks, but only for a moment. When he is done, I feed the flyer to the flame. Brightly, the dog’s soul bounds free, leaping into the wooden chair.

  Papa can’t see the spirit, but can he tell the difference? I want to ask, but I know he doesn’t want to talk. Instead, I watch as he takes a breath, putting his left hand on the wheel. As he pushes, the faintest sound creeps through his lips—not loud enough for me to make out, but I am not the one he’s talking too. The chair turns to the right, and even I can tell it’s moving much more smoothly. Papa’s smile is all the proof I need.

  We sleep that night under the trees, overlooking the silvery sand of the beach. It is strange to be on land again. I hadn’t realized how familiar the sound of the sea had become, and the night birds sing differently here in the west. It is a long time before I drift off to sleep, and morning comes too soon. But we do not want to linger near the shore, and after a quick breakfast, we plunge deeper into the jungle.

  The Tiger leads, slicing a path with his machete, and Le Trépas and Akra bring up the rear. The rest of us string out between them in single file along the river. Leo and I walk just behind Papa, ready to lend our strength when he needs it. The dog’s soul makes the chair light enough to wrestle over the terrain at a fair speed. Still, the undergrowth clings to the spokes of the wheels, and ruts in the track threaten to tip Papa out if he moves too quickly. Despite our help, his shoulders are drenched with sweat by midmorning. And as gentle as we all try to be on the bumpy, pitted track, it can’t be easy to jounce and judder through the brush.

  Theodora suffers too, her blond curls limp in the weather, her face grim whenever she slaps a mosquito and has to wipe blood from her pale skin. But La Fleur doesn’t complain, and whenever she slips, Camreon is beside her to catch her arm.

  We move at a snail’s pace, fighting the mud, the bugs, the slick and twisting paths. Sometimes there is a trail, other times it vanishes, and still other times I am certain we are retreading old ground but for the fact that the river is always to our left. We are drenched daily with sweat or rain. Every morning, we check our boots for centipedes; at night, we pull leeches from the backs of our legs and try to sleep to the symphony of croaking frogs. But there is comfort in returning to the jungle. I have missed the smell of the mud and the greenery, the soft quality of the humid air, the vibrant feeling of living things just out of sight.

  The Kai Lin narrows as we walk, and the mountains of the Coffret draw sharply closer, until we reach a waterfall that tumbles from the crags overhead, diving straight down into a rock-rimmed pool. The cliffs are lined with moss like green velvet, and little ferns that brush the surface of the churning water. Boulders line the pool, and Tia plunks down on one of them, dunking her head into the pond and tossing it back like a mermaid. Then she rolls up the legs of her trousers and dips her toes into the water with a sigh.

  I wade in too, till the water comes to my knees—it is bliss. But as I peer into the trees, I do not see the bright shine of souls. “How much farther?” I call to Cam, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. His answering smile is almost apologetic.

  “Less than a quarter mile,” he says, and my heart leaps. “At least, as birds fly.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Up there?”

  He nods. “Up there.”

  We all look skyward, into the silver clouds of mist that obscure the source of the falls. A flash of excitement shoots through me—the height is a dizzy thrill after the mind-numbing trek through the jungle. But Tia shakes her head so hard that water flies from her hair. “No,” she says. “I live here now.”

  “How are we supposed to climb that?” Akra grimaces, but Cam points to what looks like a crack, zigzagging up the cliff face.

  “There’s an old stone stair cut into the rock.”

  “It looks too narrow for the chair.”

  “We might have to carry your father,” Cam says.

  Tia lifts her arms, pouting. “Who’s carrying me?”

  “There’s a better way,” I say, picking my way over to where the tabletop rests on a stone. Grabbing one end, I tip it sideways, dumping the remaining cans among the tumbled river rocks. Then I step aboard as though the platform is a stage, urging the soul up, up. The table teeters a bit, then rises into the air, and the looks I get from the others feel like a limelight. I half want to bow. “Who wants to go first?” I say instead, and suddenly everyone looks away.

  All except for Theodora. “I’ll do it,” she whispers with a grin, but then Leo stands.

  “Let me,” he says. “We don’t know what’s at the top.”

  “Or if you’ll even reach it, riding on that thing,” says Tia. He makes a face at her, but he takes my hand. I pull him up beside me. The platform seesaws again, and I almost laugh aloud at the look on Leo’s face. Instead, I check the satchel to make sure it’s tightly shut against the drifting mist—the last grenade is inside, tucked beside the sealed jar. I do not want to ruin it in the damp. Then I whisper to the soul of the gull—steady, slow.

  I keep hold of Leo’s hand for balance, fighting the urge to tease him by going faster. The platform rises past the falls like a feather on a warm breeze. As we gain distance from Le Trépas, tiny souls drift nearer like old friends. Nearing the top, I look down, and then I do laugh—the height makes me giddy. But Leo grips my arms, pulling me toward the center of the platform, keeping us both steady till we reach the top.

  Cresting the cliff, I gasp when I see the landscape laid out before us. The pool that feeds the waterfall is a crystal well, studded with a scattering of tiny islands; the edge is flat and stony, with tiny ferns tucked in among the rocks. The souls of minnows flash and shimmer in the water. But the beauty of the wide pool is not what catches my eye. Instead, I stare at the conflagration on the far shore. It takes me a moment to realize it is not firelight, but souls. It’s been so long since I’ve seen so many. “The temple,” I say, and Leo peers across the water.

  “Where?”

  I point at the cluster of spirits, but of course he cannot see them. Squinting, I try to make out the shape of the landscape behind the blaze of light. “Just inside the grove of trees, there. Don’t worry,” I say as he stares. “We’ll see it soon enough. Stay here. I’ll go back and get the others.”

  Leo grimaces as he steps off the platform onto the bank of the pool. “Hurry, will you? It’s creepy up here by myself.”

  “You have your gun, right?”

  “It won’t be much use against a dragon,” he says, only half teasing.

  “Neither would the rest of us,” I say.

  “Yes, but at least I wouldn’t die alone.”

  I step back onto the platform and give him a grin. “You wouldn’t be alone. There’d be a dragon with you.”

  Leo narrows his eyes, but before he can retort, I whisper to the gull’s soul. Quickly, the platform falls back down through the mist, and for one glorious moment, I am weightless. There is air beneath my feet. What would it feel like to fall? To step from the platform and feel the wind whistle by as I shot like a bullet toward the dark water below?

  My hand goes to the flask at my waist as I tell the soul to go slow. I know better. I do.

  Theodora comes up next, and she cannot
hide her excitement as we rise. “I’ve dreamed of flying for years,” she says softly. Then her smile deepens. “We should have traveled like this on our way up the river. Less chafing.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Next time.”

  “God forbid!” she says with a grin as she steps off onto the bluff.

  The others come up one by one—Cam, Tia, Papa in his chair. What to do about Akra and Le Trépas? As I stare at them, I wish for a bigger platform. But there is nothing for it. I leave Akra at the edge of the pool and bring the monk with me first.

  Holding him by the shoulders, I help him over the stones and onto the board. Under my breath, I pray to my ancestors that he will not speak, but they are not listening. Or perhaps it is the wrong ones who intervene. “You don’t come to talk to me anymore,” he says as I take my place beside him.

  “That’s because you tricked me last time.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I gave you exactly what you wanted.”

  “You didn’t tell me what it would cost.” I speak through my teeth, trying to stay calm. Gently, we lift off the rocks.

  Le Trépas only looks amused. “This is blood magic, Jetta. It’s fueled by pain and sacrifice.”

  “You think I haven’t sacrificed?” My mouth twists, bitter. “You think I haven’t killed?”

  “Then why does it still bother you?” he says. “People die in this war every day. Mostly our people. If you could kill one person to save a hundred others, isn’t their death the better choice?”

  “That’s not a choice I want to make.”

  “Alas.” The monk shrugs. “That’s the burden you and I bear.”

  “I’m nothing like you,” I growl.

  “Aren’t you?” He gives me half a smile. “What if I told you I would kill your moitié boy unless you killed me right now?”