by Heidi Heilig
Underfoot, the transport wobbles, as though the soul inside heard the violence in my thoughts. I glance down at the crashing falls, the dark rocks below. All it would take to kill Le Trépas is a little push. Instead, I meet Akra’s eyes—he’s there at the edge of the pond, looking back up at me. His voice comes: a memory, this time. You’re not a monster. I take a deep breath; the transport steadies. “You’re very cocky for someone in a carcan,” I say at last.
“You’re very certain, for someone with so much to lose,” the monk replies. “You must know that the Aquitans will die when the gods are whole again.”
“The story says peace will come,” I say with a wry look. “And what makes you think that will happen anytime soon?”
“They’ve brought us together, haven’t they?” The monk sighs, almost wistful. “Life and Death, two halves of a whole.”
“We’ll be apart again soon enough,” I mutter as we crest the cliff.
Le Trépas leans closer to whisper. “Not if you put my soul in your skin.”
“What?” I stare at him, horrified as the transport bumps against the path. The monk takes a breath as though to say more, but I push him toward Camreon, who ushers the man to solid ground. Then the Tiger sees my expression.
“What is it?” he says, glancing from me to the monk and back. “What did he do?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the thought of repeating the monk’s offer brings bile to my tongue. And it was just that—an offer. It is my blood, my power, my body. All Le Trépas can do is kill. “Nothing,” I say firmly. “He can’t do anything.”
Still, Le Trépas stares at me until I disappear back down through the mists. Alone on the transport, I break out in goosebumps—as though the monk has already crept into my flesh. I run my hands over my arms, trying to slough off the residue of his words. By the time I reach the ground, my heart has slowed, but Akra frowns when he sees me. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired,” I say as we lift off the ground. But I can’t deny that his presence is a comfort, even though he presses so close to the center of the transport that he nearly shoves me off the edge. “Some space?”
He moves half a hair. It takes me another moment to remember how much he hates heights. So I take his hands, and he grips mine with white knuckles as we rise through the glittering mist. It feels good for a moment for him to need me as much as I need him.
Act 3
Act 3,
Scene 26
Late night at the barracks, in one of many rooms reserved for the questioneurs. The walls are thick enough to muffle sound; the floor drains toward a gutter where a noxious stream of liquid flows.
The room is provided with a neat desk and a comfortable chair. These civilized furnishings are at odds with the crude board bed, built like a seesaw, so that one end can be tilted up and the other down. There is a scarred wooden bucket on the floor beside it, filled with dirty water.
A man sits at the desk, taking notes, and a young boy strapped to the board, wheezing through the wet cloth that still covers his face. The questioneur pays him no mind—the interview was a dead end.
He is finishing his notes when there is a knock at the door. The questioneur doesn’t bother looking up.
QUESTIONEUR: I didn’t call for the docteur!
The door opens, and JUNOT steps in.
JUNOT: I’m not the docteur.
Now the questioneur looks up, frowning.
QUESTIONEUR: Is my shift already over?
JUNOT: Yes.
In three steps, JUNOT closes the distance, his face sickly in the light of the room. The questioneur has no time to mention it before the revenant drives an awl into his ear. The questioneur’s body convulses in his chair, limbs twitching as he dies. Under the wet cloth, the boy on the board starts to whimper.
JUNOT: Don’t be afraid. You’re almost free.
When the shocked akela steps free of the questioneur’s body, the revenant withdraws the pick, sliding two fingers along the length of the iron, slick with gore. He uses the red jelly to make the mark of life on the questioneur’s body, and the symbol of death on his own. The questioneur’s soul is uninterested in the mark, but the disciple’s soul is and steps inside its fresh skin. When the questioneur sits up again, he wipes the rest of the blood from his ear.
The next thing he does is strip JUNOT’s stinking corpse and carry it to the cart in the hall outside. He lays it on the pile; it is not the only body leaving the barracks tonight. The uniform he keeps to dispose of later. Then he sets the chair aright and sits down at the desk.
Taking up the pen, he reviews the report. Name, KIET. Age, nine. Occupation, fouilleur. The boy’s claim that he knew no one in the rebellion. Later, a claim that he could offer names of rebels if only the questioneur would stop. The revenent doesn’t recognize any of the names—but neither would the rebels. The armée doesn’t seem to care. And in the empty space left below, the revenant starts to write: The rebels have taken Le Trépas to the temple in the cliffs above Kai Lin.
The boy on the board is whimpering again, but the questioneur finishes his notes before he stands. At last he stands, pulling the wet cloth from the boy’s face; the boy gasps as though he may never take a full breath again.
KIET (shaking): Please let me go.
QUESTIONEUR: I will.
The questioneur lets him take one more breath before he wraps his hand around the boy’s slim throat. The last thing the fouilleur sees is the questioneur’s blue eyes, and in them, something like pity.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The day is fading, but the path around the pool shines in the reflected glow of the souls clustered in the trees on the other side. I take the lead, drawn to the brightness of the grove, so brilliant after the long walk in the soulless dim. But as we close in, the exodus starts.
At first, it is only a few souls—birds spiraling off into the dark night, or jungle cats prowling away into the mist. But the closer we get, the more souls flee their haven, a steady stream of bright lives running. The welcoming light fades like a dying coal. Behind me, I hear Le Trépas laugh. My lip curls; I bite back a sharp word. Then Akra speaks. “What is that?”
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I squint in the odd twilight of the shifting spirits. There is someone emerging from the trees—no, two people—and a strange creature cavorting in front of them. It takes me a moment to make sense of the play of light and shadow, but when I do, my heart leaps. Fashioned out of leather and paint, gold and gleaming copper, it is a long fantouche in the shape of a dragon, though she bounds toward me like the kitten spirit that animates her.
“Miu!” I kneel, holding out my arms as the fantouche leaps up, sending me sprawling. Stones prick my back as the cool mud seeps through the seat of my coveralls, but I don’t mind. Miu is the most beautiful fantouche I ever made—and the only one I have left.
Leo laughs as I wrestle with the rambunctious creature. “I warned you about the dragons.”
I push myself up to my feet—not easy, with Miu winding around my legs. She butts her nose against my palm as I stroke the smooth leather of her painted head. I catch Akra’s appraising look; he was always a better leatherworker than I was. The approval in his nod makes me grin. Then I look up at the sound of running feet, and a high, joyful scream. “Look out,” I say, and Leo turns just before the girl launches herself into his arms.
“Cheeky!” Leo staggers ankle-deep into the water as she wraps him in a full body hug. Regaining his balance, he spins her around as she buries her face in his neck. Then he yelps, tipping her out of his arms and into the lake. She screams again as she surfaces, shaking water out of her hair.
“You dropped me!”
“You bit me!”
“You’re surprised?” She cocks a hip and turns to me; the way her dress clings makes me blush. “Jetta! Isn’t there a shadow play about this? Something about a scorpion and a frog . . . ?”
“Crossing a river. Yes.” I press my lips toget
her as the memory surfaces—a performer’s life feels like someone else’s story. “She stings him because it’s in her nature.”
“You see?” Cheeky turns back to Leo, as though I’ve proven her point. Then she dabs carefully at the skin beneath her eyes, where the makeup is starting to run; even bedraggled, she is beautiful. “And now I’m all wet.”
“That’s also in your nature,” Tia teases, coming in for a hug.
“Tia, ma belle. I missed you.” Cheeky pats her cheek, then waves a hand at my coveralls—stained and torn. “But how could you let this happen? I sent her off in my second-best dress, and this is how she comes back to me?”
“Don’t judge,” I say, defensive. “We’ve just spent over a week in the bush.”
Cheeky only gives me a sly grin, elbowing Leo in the ribs “You never told me it was that kind of rescue mission.”
My cheeks grow hot, but the laughter eases something in me, and for a blissful moment, we are back in the glitter and smoke of the theater. “It’s good to see you again,” I murmur, and her look softens.
“You too, Jetta. All of you. If you want to follow me, I can show you to . . .” Her voice trails off—is it the sight of Le Trépas? No . . . Leo’s sudden laugh reminds me: the old monk may or may not intimidate Cheeky, but my brother certainly does.
The silence stretches; the showgirl has forgotten her lines. Does Akra know why she’s staring? His own expression is so severe—or perhaps it is only the shadows that make it seem that way. “The rest of us could use a bath too,” he says at last, giving her a pointed look.
Her hand goes to her wet hair, flustered, but a new voice interrupts any answer she might have made. “Took you long enough!”
Despite the long shadows of evening, it is not difficult to recognize the Boy King coming down the path. Not least because he still wears a tailored Aquitan suit made of soft linen, and the ivory crown on his head. He grins at Camreon, clapping him on the back; in his other hand, he lifts a dark glass bottle. “Must have been a long walk. Thirsty?”
Cam pulls away, making a face. “Not for champagne.”
“Bad luck to toast with water.”
“So the Aquitans claim,” the Tiger says drily. “What’s the occasion?”
“Your successful escape!” Raik gestures at the rest of us with a grin. Their features are so very similar—it is their demeanors that set them apart. Where Cam is assured, Raik is cocky—but some of that confidence fades when Cam hands back the bottle, untasted.
“If we toasted every time we had to run, we’d be too drunk to stand and fight.”
“The fight is almost over now that we have the nécromanciens.” Raik glances at me, then back to Le Trépas, unable to hide the awe in his eyes. The look sours when he sees Theodora. “And La Fleur, of course. Looking much more wretched than last time I saw her.”
I blink at him, taken aback. The hope of a marriage to end the war suddenly seems like a child’s idea. But La Fleur lifts her chin. Despite the fact that she is weary and travel worn, her expression is as haughty as a queen’s. “I always try to dress for the occasion.”
Raik’s eyes narrow, but the Tiger steps between them. “In my letter, I asked you to come alone.”
“To spare her feelings?” Raik asks, raising an eyebrow at Theodora. But Cam shakes his head.
“Because the last thing we need is gossip about Le Trépas.”
“Too late for that,” Raik says with a laugh. “I made the announcement the moment I got the letter. Besides, contrary to appearances, the girl can be discreet.” The Boy King jerks his head at Cheeky, sliding his free hand around her waist. The gesture is either careless or cruel, and the showgirl is neither. She shifts on her feet, but Raik doesn’t drop his arm.
Cam ignores the exchange, staring at his brother. “Announcement? Why?”
“To give them something to hope for,” Raik says, defensive.
“Or something to fear.” Cam presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Have you prepared a place for him, at least? Somewhere secure. Away from the rest of the rebels.”
“There are cells cut into the old mines,” the Boy King replies. “The Aquitans used them for workers caught stealing. And it’s where the weapons are being staged. I’ll take him there myself.”
“Is that wise?” Camreon says, glancing significantly at the bottle.
“The king’s decisions are always wise,” Raik says, and for a moment, everything seems too still. Then the Boy King pushes the champagne back into the Tiger’s hands. “Oh, fine. Take this with you if you’re worried.”
“How about I take it and come with you?”
“Even better.” Raik grins again, though the smile is strained. “And have a taste, for God’s sake, it’s imported! Cheeky, show the others to the temple!”
Without waiting for an answer, the Boy King turns on his heel. His brother follows, with Akra and Le Trépas after him. The four of them trudge downhill, the jungle closing around them, and my stomach tightens into knots. I have not liked traveling so close to Le Trépas, so why is it difficult to watch him depart? It cannot be that I want him near. No. It is only the uncertainty of not knowing where he is—not knowing what he’s doing.
At least I don’t have to worry about him creeping up behind me. Almost as soon as he is out of sight, souls start to gleam again among the greenery at my feet. By the time I catch up with the others, the glow has returned to the grove ahead, and in the golden light, the tightness in my gut starts to ease. They are so bright, so beautiful. And so plentiful too. The temple must be close, though I struggle to see through the ropey vines of the tangle of banyan ahead. When Cheeky leads us between two twisted trunks like columns, I gasp—the grove did not hide the temple. It is the temple.
A network of living arches and arcades, balconies and balustrades . . . it must have taken centuries of daily tending to sculpt. Roots have been woven together in lacy screens: orchids and bromeliads stud the columns like jewels. Beside me, Papa sighs—the floor of the temple is black basalt. His chair moves so smoothly across it.
He rolls right toward the statue in the center of the sanctuary: the Maiden. As Cheeky leads the others down the hall, I linger too. The statue is almost untouched by the destruction ordered by the armée: a beautiful girl, fat and smiling, her rounded arms spilling over with a bounty of fruit and flowers. Gold leaf still glimmers on her brow. The only things missing are the jewels that must have been set in her eyes.
My own arms are thin and empty. Do I really serve such a bountiful god? We have so little in common.
“She reminds me of being young.” Papa’s voice is a whisper through his fingers. While the others have gone ahead, he has stayed at my side, and on his face is a look of peace.
I blink at the sound of his voice—unexpected, but welcome. “I’ve never seen a temple that the armée hadn’t destroyed.”
“I thought they only existed in my memory,” he says softly—slowly. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “The monastery where I sp—” His voice trails off, and he looks pained. My mind races to fill in the gaps.
“Where you spent your summers?” It’s a good guess—or so I thought. But if anything, the pain on his face deepens. I press my lips together, chastened.
“Yes,” he says at last, still slurring the S. But he takes a deliberate breath, and the look on his face is now determination. I wait, tamping down the urge to speak for him—listening instead. “Where I spent my summers studying.” He dabs his lips again, but his hands don’t hide the satisfaction in his eyes. “It was dedicated to the Maiden too. It’s where I learned to carve.”
My eyebrows go up. He had never mentioned it, but I can see it now in the delicate scrollwork of our old roulotte—or of the fantouches he used to make: an echo of the lacy designs of the temple. I reach out, trailing my fingers along the altar, where stone fruit and flowers cover the Maiden’s feet. Then I gasp, pulling my hand back. There among the verdure is the rounded curve of a stone s
kull—and another. And another. “I thought the Maiden represented life.”
“One can’t exist without the other.”
I fold my arms, feeling betrayed. But Papa presses his palms together and bows to the statue. His face is so calm. Where do my fears come from? My ideas of death and life? Had they come from Chakran history, or from Aquitan propaganda? Then I frown—Papa’s lips are moving. “What are you doing?”
It is a moment before he lowers his hands. “Praying.”
The answer surprises me. Should I be doing the same? I have prayed to my brother’s soul, to my ancestors, but never to the gods. “What did you ask her for?”
This time, the only answer he gives is a smile. In the silence, Cheeky’s voice makes me turn.
“I’d wondered where we’d lost you.” Her smile is soft, all the teasing gone; she stands beneath the twisted roots of the archway like a forest spirit. “The baths are waiting. Do you need time?”
I glance at Papa, but he waves me off. Cheeky throws a half smile over her shoulder at him as she leads me down the hall. But once we’re out of earshot, I lean in. “Is Maman here too?”
“Not in the temple,” she says. “But Raik gave her a house in the valley.”
“A house?”
“He can be very generous,” she says, only a little defensive. “And you are rather important to the rebellion.”
I turn the idea over in my head—somehow in all the time I spent in the spotlight, celebrated by Aquitan patrons, I never imagined the sort of importance that would earn Maman a house. “So . . .” I hesitate, needing the answer and dreading it all the same. “How is she doing?”
“Much better,” Cheeky says. I sigh, relieved. But it’s a strange feeling for Cheeky to know more about her than I do. “She was bereft, you know,” the girl continues. “For weeks. For a while, I was afraid that . . . well.”
Her tone stops me short. “Well, what?”
Cheeky stops too, toying with the thick leaves of a knot of bromeliads; it is incongruous to see her so reluctant. “Leo told you how his mother died,” she says at last. Is it a question?
