by Heidi Heilig
I wet my lips, suddenly just as nervous as she looks. “Yes.”
“I knew her for a few years,” the girl says softly. “She was a diva in all the best ways. Sang like a nightingale when she was happy. Screamed like a hawk when she wasn’t. She danced on tables and cursed her lovers and brought the house down with the songs she wrote. But for a month before she shot herself, it was like the spirit had gone out of her. She could barely get out of bed. Your maman was like that for a while. Raik hired a docteur for her too. Made sure someone was always watching her, just in case. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” she adds then. “She thought she’d lost you.”
“It makes sense,” I say quietly, but the thought is discomfiting: how close I had come to losing her. But I hadn’t. I make a note to thank Raik for that.
Cheeky leads me through a long hall of living arches interspersed with curving stairwells spiraling upward. Overhead, old monk’s cells are connected by crisscrossing bridges grown from woven roots. The place is huge—much bigger than Hell’s Court—and every room seems full of people like me: Chakrans who had joined the revolution.
But hadn’t Leo said the rebel ranks were growing? The mood here is high. Conversation drifts down around our heads, and laughter, and the bets of women playing cards. But as we pass, people peek out of doorways to peer after us, and why do they all look so young? The bustle ebbs, then blooms again behind us, whispers flitting down the hall like bats; I catch a few here and there, and none of them have anything to do with nécromancy or malheur. The word I hear over and over again is one from my childhood—from the village, from Le Verdu. From the places and times where there were fewer Aquitans about. “Ros parem,” they say. Ros parem, ros parem. Old Chakran for shadow puppeteer.
My heart beats faster, like a drum. The murmur of voices sounds like distant applause. Is there time to put on a show for the rebels? Miu is my only fantouche, but with some bamboo and mulberry paper, I could make more. And perhaps we could borrow instruments. Akra could join us too . . . if he could somehow get a moment away from Le Trépas. The last time all of us had performed together was before he left for the armée.
By the time we reach the baths, there is a smile on my face, old songs in my head. Tia and Theodora are already inside, and the air is thick with steam and the bright scent of herbs and soap. It is bliss to wash off the sweat and mud of the jungle trek, and when I finally pull myself away from the warm water, the selection of clothing Cheeky has provided is even more heavenly. Soft silk and light linen, richly dyed and delicately embroidered. “Where did you get all this?” I ask her, tying on a patterned sarong.
Tia chimes in as she towels dry. “Probably off her bedroom floor.”
“Jealousy is beneath you,” Cheeky says loftily.
“Everything’s been beneath me at one time or another.”
Their laughter rings like bells, but it fades when Theodora emerges from the bath. The soft rolls of her pale skin are dewy; the water smooths her blond curls. She stands with rounded shoulders, one knee cocked; could this famous beauty be shy? “You’re very familiar with each other,” she says at last, and is that judgment in her tone, or longing?
“We’re old friends,” Cheeky says, her own expression a mystery. What does she think, face-to-face with Raik’s old fiancée, with Leo’s sister? But as Tia said, Cheeky was never one for jealousy. “And there’s always room for new ones. Here, this should set off the gold in your hair.”
With that, she tugs another sarong out of the pile, this the color of a clear sky. Cheeky teaches her to wrap and tie it as Tia shaves. I return to the clothing, transferring my old things to my new belt: the elixir, the lighter, the tattered pages remaining from my book of souls.
But Theodora frowns at me as she adjusts the knot in her sarong. “If my math is correct, you must be nearly out of the treatment,” she says. “Do you still have the jar of lytheum? I can mix the rest of it if you like.”
“I do,” I say, slipping the satchel over my shoulder. But I have not told La Fleur I am trying to stretch the doses. What would she say if she knew? Then again, we are no longer on her terrain—she doesn’t set the rules here. “I actually still have at least a week’s worth in the flask,” I say. “I’ll hold on to the lytheum till then. Just in case.”
She gives me a look—not disapproval, but appraisal. “You’ve been taking less? For how long?”
“Since we made the grenades.”
“And have you noticed any ill effects?”
I frown, thinking back. Have I? “I’m not sure. Maybe some strange thoughts at the falls.”
“Mmm.” She chews her lip. “If they get worse, tell me, will you?”
“Why?” I try to laugh; the sound echoes on the stone. “What can you do about it?”
“I can listen.”
We head for the communal kitchen to find the leftovers from dinner are still warm. After weeks of tinned food and jungle forage, the bowl of congee they give me is a feast. We eat in a dining hall so large that the canopies of the trees do not meet in the middle. Above, the stars wink and twinkle, but none so bright as the souls that drift through the balmy air. I leave them the last bite of my congee as an offering. Just as Maman taught me when I was a child. Then I lean back, clean and full, as a gentle lassitude comes over me—something different than exhaustion. Something more like peace.
My eyes are closing; I’m half in a dream when Papa gasps. Blinking awake, I follow his gaze. There she is, hesitating in the archway, as if my thoughts had summoned her. “Meliss,” Papa says, but I shout.
“Maman?”
I stand, uncertain. Her presence here shocks me—Maman, in a temple! Am I still dreaming? Her own eyes are wide. She looks like she wants to run, and I can’t tell which direction. But she takes one step, then another, passing into the hall as golden souls swirl around her. Papa whirls in his chair, speeding across the stone, and I race after him. We meet in the center, the three of us, my arms around Maman, Papa’s around us both. I can feel her shaking, but she holds me tight.
“You’re safe,” she murmurs, and the words have never felt more true. She pulls back looking into Papa’s face, as though it’s a marvel. “You’re alive.”
“You’re here,” I say in wonder. Maman was always terrified of the temples.
“I came the moment I heard. But where’s Akra?” Her eyes dart around the room. Is she looking for my brother? No—by the fear in her face, I can tell she is looking for Le Trépas. She would have heard he was here too.
She’d known he was here and she’d come anyway.
“Akra’s safe,” I say carefully. “But he’s . . . busy.”
She bites her lip, peering at me—Maman is not easy to fool. “He’s with Le Trépas, isn’t he? The others told me he’s acting as a guard.”
“He is.” I stare at her, taken aback. She never even liked hearing the old monk’s nickname, but now, saying it aloud, her voice hardly shakes. “Maman . . .” How to put it? “You’ve changed.”
“So have you, Jetta.” She laughs a little—nervous—like the flutter of a bird. “I heard about what you’ve been doing. What you can do. And if anyone should be afraid, it’s him.”
She pulls me close once more, my cheek against her ear—with a start, I realize she and I are the same height. And as we hold each other tight, I do not know which of us is comforting the other.
Still, I do not want to let her go—to step out of the warm cocoon of my parents’ embrace. But I can’t stay there forever, either. At last I pull away, and my parents fold in to each other like a love letter. Maman touches her husband’s scarred cheek. She gathers up his crooked hand in her own. His eyes close and he sighs, as though her touch can heal. And maybe it does—at least, for him. But standing beside them, I feel even more alone than I did in Theodora’s workshop. Somehow, in the past few months, I’ve gone from their daughter to their defender, and I don’t know if I can ever go back.
Act 3,
Scene 28
RAIK: I still can’t believe you got him all the way here with no one dying. Do you think he’s reformed?
CAMREON: I think there’s death enough these days to keep him happy.
RAIK: Or maybe he just wants the Aquitans out. Like the rest of us.
CAMREON smiles a little.
CAMREON: I’m working on it.
RAIK: So am I.
RAIK’s tone is defensive; CAMREON’s smile fades.
CAMREON: I never said otherwise.
The Boy King narrows his eyes. Then he scrubs his hand down his face.
RAIK: Desolée, Camreon. It’s getting to me. The pressure. The uncertainty. The godforsaken jungle!
He slaps a mosquito on the side of his neck and frowns at the blood on his hands.
We’re in the middle of nowhere while those bastards sit comfortably in the capital. I wonder if they’d trade and call it even.
The Tiger raises an eyebrow.
CAMREON: You don’t really mean that.
RAIK: No.
A pause.
Of course not.
Another pause. He takes a drink from the bottle.
But I wonder what they’d do if I went back.
CAMREON: To the Aquitans?
RAIK: To the throne. Their official story is that you’ve kidnapped me. If I claim I escaped, they’d be forced to welcome me with open arms.
CAMREON: And then they’d stab you in the back. Probably put it on my recherche too.
RAIK: Legarde would have. But as much as I dislike her, I don’t believe Theodora wanted me dead. I think she and I can still marry, if she’ll agree to my terms.
The Tiger’s expression is careful.
CAMREON: It’s Xavier I’m more worried about.
RAIK: The general would have to be shot for war crimes.
CAMREON: I don’t think his men would let that happen so easily. Much less Theodora.
RAIK: They won’t have much choice. The rebel ranks have doubled since I left the capital.
CAMREON: With people too young or old or injured to fight. Most of the new recruits are refugees from La Verdu.
RAIK: And armée ranks have been shrinking for months.
CAM: They still have better weapons.
RAIK: Not once Jetta starts her work. Or Le Trépas.
CAMREON raises an eyebrow. RAIK cocks his head, half teasing.
Come now, brother. I don’t for a moment think you brought him here just to keep him locked away.
CAMREON sighs, then lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a sip before passing it to RAIK.
CAMREON: I won’t lie—I’ve considered asking him for help. But it’s too dangerous. We don’t know enough. Not to mention that the country would never stand for it.
RAIK: Isn’t that why the Tiger exists? To make the unpopular choices?
CAMREON makes a wry face.
CAMREON: So the king can take the throne with clean hands?
RAIK: Yes.
RAIK’s reply is simple. But in the silence that follows, his eyes narrow.
We’ve talked about this, Camreon. You’ve seen how cleverly the Aquitans use propaganda. We can’t give them more fodder. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.
CAMREON: I’m not afraid of being unpopular, Raik. I’m afraid that if we give Le Trépas free reign, he’ll kill more than just the Aquitans.
RAIK: Don’t underestimate our people, Cam. Chakrans know there are things worth dying for.
The Boy King takes another drink from the bottle, then offers it to CAMREON. The Tiger takes it but doesn’t drink.
CAMREON: That’s very easy to say for those not tasked with dying.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I wake late the next morning to the sound of whispering—Cheeky, at least, is already awake. The rest of us are sharing her room: a spacious atrium all to herself, the walls decorated with living braids and lacework dripping with orchids. Cheeky had been right about the Boy King: he clearly was generous when he wanted to be. There is a tray of fresh fruit on a wide vanity topped with a real silvered mirror, and the parts of the floor that aren’t piled with pillows are covered with chests carved from sandalwood. When I crack my eyes to peek out from my makeshift nest, I see Tia admiring the contents.
Watered silk, gold thread, embroidered sleeves, cascading ruffles, a wealth of lace—so many clothes, and all much too fine to wear for fighting. But Cheeky looks less than pleased surveying her hoard.
Tia drapes a pomegranate silk dress against her body with a longing sigh. “Are you sure?”
“It’s all yours,” the girl replies firmly, chewing her thumbnail. “Take whatever you want. It’s too much for me, anyway. I told him that, you know.”
“You know what men like to hear,” Tia teases, but Cheeky only folds her arms and looks away. The singer’s face softens. “Come on, Cheeky. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that a good time isn’t always for a long time.”
Curiosity spurs me out of my makeshift bed. I prop myself up on my elbow as Miu lifts her head from the scattered pillows, flicking her tail in irritation before burrowing back down in the silks. “Are you talking about my brother?”
“No!” Cheeky says, too fast and too loud. I would laugh if not for the panic on her face.
“Not directly,” Tia adds. “It’s the Playboy King. Pardon the term,” she says then, glancing at Theodora, sitting up in her own nest of pillows. I hadn’t realized she was awake too.
“You think I hadn’t heard what sort of man I was supposed to marry?” A small smile tugs at the bow of La Fleur’s lips. “It’s the only reason I agreed to the match. I thought he’d be too busy to bother me in my workshop. I didn’t realize that half of his clandestine meetings were held with rebels. It’s a lovely dress,” she adds. “Raik always had impeccable taste.”
Cheeky’s blush deepens to match the silk. “Help yourself to anything you like,” she mumbles, but Tia rolls her eyes.
“Do you plan to woo Jetta’s brother in the buff? Then again, if you can’t bear to talk to him, it might be your best option.”
I bite my lip, unsure whether to gasp or laugh. But Cheeky grits her teeth. “Do you like that wig, Tia? Because I’m about to feed it to you.”
“There’s an idea,” Tia says mildly, nodding at the tray of fruit. “Bring him something to eat. I mean food. He’s stuck in that mine with no one but Le Trépas to keep him company. I know I’d appreciate a soft smile and a good meal.”
Cheeky’s brow furrows as she thinks it over; in the silence, I open my mouth to correct her about the meal, then think better of it. Best not to throw Cheeky for a loop. And certainly my brother would appreciate the company, at least. “Why is she afraid to speak to him?”
Immediately, Cheeky shoots me a look. “I’m not afraid to speak to you, you know.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Why, then?”
She seems to wilt, half exasperated, half helpless. “Because whenever I open my mouth—Tia, I am warning you,” she adds, suddenly fierce. Tia mimes locking her lips with an imaginary key, and Cheeky sighs. “Whenever I open my mouth, something terrible comes out.”
I could swear Tia snorts, but when Cheeky turns to glare at her, her face is carefully blank. “Tia’s right,” I say, echoing her expression. “Less chance of saying the wrong thing if your mouth is full.”
Cheeky narrows her eyes, peering at me, but I am an actor—my face doesn’t crack. After a moment, hers does, revealing a small smile beneath. “He probably is hungry, isn’t he?”
“Not half as hungry as you are,” Tia says under her breath, stepping into the pomegranate dress.
Cheeky ignores her; she’s smiling now, shedding her misery like a garment. Dreamily, the girl sits down at her vanity, picking up a brush a
nd some pins to freshen up her curls. I watch her for a while, mesmerized. How I envy her ability to hear the melody of love and beauty among the crash of the drums of war.
Beside me, La Fleur sighs. “I remember visiting Le Perl with my father,” she says. “All the lovely girls with their pretty silks, when I was more used to playing with my brother in the barracks. Leo’s maman was the one who gave me my first lipstick. I can see why our father loved her.”
I cock my head, curious. “Did he?”
“Oh yes,” she says, shooting me a look. “It’s all over his journals.”
My eyebrows go up—it’s hard to believe. “Then . . . why did he leave her? Why did he pretend Leo wasn’t his?”
“He loved his reputation more.” Theodora smiles sadly, her eyes a little too bright. What does she love most? Before I can ask, she turns to call to the others. “Speaking of lipstick, I refuse to show my face outside this room until I’ve restored it to its former glory.”
“I have a red bright enough to signal ships,” Cheeky says, holding up a pot of rouge.
Theodora laughs. “Considering the rebel base is meant to be kept secret, maybe something a little more subdued?”
Cheeky waves her over to the vanity, and I watch as La Fleur puts on her colors: deepening her blue eyes, brightening her mouth. Is it art or armor? Both, perhaps. We spend the morning eating fruit and enjoying the clothing, the makeup, the conversation—all the little trappings of civilization. I hardly notice time passing until a knock comes at the door. Cheeky tosses her hair and sneaks a look in the mirror before she opens it. Her smile falls when she sees Raik just outside.
His own smile turns to confusion when he sees her look. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” she says. When he reaches for her, she ducks back, out of reach. “It’s not a good time, Raik.”
Instantly, his brow furrows. He opens his mouth, but when he sees the rest of us in the room, he closes it again. “We came for Jetta, anyway,” he mutters then, nodding back at Camreon just behind him in the hall. “I want to show you both the weapons we’re assembling in the mine.”
