by Heidi Heilig
When I scramble to my feet, pillows tumble aside. This respite was too brief, but it is not like me to miss a cue. Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I step past Cheeky to join the Tiger and his brother.
They lead me through the temple, past the statue of the Maiden and through the arched banyan entryway to take the path down from the ridge. The hillside is steep, the track gouged into it at sharp angles. The vegetation crowding us is newer than the growth along the river; when the mines were active, the area must have been stripped bare for fuel. I am grateful the mines had been abandoned before the Aquitans ordered the destruction of the temples—otherwise, the lovely banyan structure might have been so much kindling in a miner’s cookfire.
As it is, the temple is impossible to see, even from just a short way down the hill. It had survived hidden from the armée, tended by the surviving monks—or even the nearby villagers. This far from the capital, people reclaim their heritage like the jungle reclaims the soil.
We duck beneath tangled masses of lianas that clamber over the stumps of old trees. Thick stands of fast-growing bamboo cluster along the path. This part of the jungle can’t be much older than Papa. Leaves shiver and shush in the breeze; my nose wrinkles at the smell of something dead nearby. Or is that only the scent of ripening durian?
It is not long before we reach a rocky ledge at the opening of the mine. There is a notch in the brush here, and the valley is spread below us like an offering, complete with a village tucked into the basin, small and secret. The broken mirrors of the watery rice paddies reflect the steely sky, and little puffs of smoke rise from lunchtime cookfires. I can even see children splashing in the shallows of the river as their minders do the washing.
Is this where Maman has been living? It reminds me so much of Lak Na. Suddenly, I want to go down the hill. To find Papa and Maman in the house the Boy King has given them. To sweep the floor, build up the fire. To tempt friendly souls inside with offerings of rice. To be at home again. But Raik beckons us into the mouth of the mine. “The view in here is much more impressive.”
He grins as he walks backward into the earth; I follow more slowly. Why is it so dark? I blink, waiting for my eyes to adjust; there are no souls to light my way. “Le Trépas is here.”
“Farther down the hall,” Cam confirms, pointing with his chin—indeed, there is a light ahead, dim or distant: the steady glow of a lamp. Is that where Akra is, stuck in the dark? The place is depressing. I make a mental note to tell Tia she was right—my brother could use some company. Then I swear, tripping on a branch.
No. It is too fine, too pale—and it rattles as it moves. I fumble with the fold of my belt—where is my lighter? But Raik has already pulled one from his own pockets; with it, he coaxes a flame from the oil lamp hung on one of the timbers bracing the tunnel. Too readily, I recognize the play of firelight on bone; what I had thought was a branch is a femur twice as long as a horse’s.
It is bound with wire to the pebble bones of a joint; below those are a set of claws longer than my fingers. The skeletal limb is placed beside the arched bones of a long neck, each vertebrae the size of a man’s fist. The rest of the skeleton snakes away down the tunnel; hidden in the shadows, it seems impossibly long. And at the other end . . .
Despite the improbable proportions of the creature before me, it is the skull that makes me gasp. Narrow and graceful, and antlered like a deer, with teeth like knives, large enough to tear a man in half. “A dragon,” I breathe, and Raik grins.
“This one is the most complete.” His voice is almost giddy. “But I have two others being assembled in the mine shafts downhill. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Where did you find them?” I say softly, running a finger over the curve of the ridged spine. I have seen apothecaries shilling what they claim is powdered dragon horn to the rich and gullible—and I have heard of the Aquitan craze for cigarette holders fashioned from their hollow bones. Indeed, there was a time when dragon parts rivaled sapphires for export, though no one has seen a dragon for ages—at least, not where I grew up in Lak Na.
“Collectors,” Raik says proudly. “I still have connections at the palace, despite the distance.”
“Connections?” The Tiger speaks as though handling each word carefully. “Are they trustworthy?”
Raik raises his eyebrows, gesturing at the bones. “They certainly delivered.”
“And how much did this delivery cost?”
“Victory is priceless, Cam.”
“So are bullets!”
The Boy King scoffs. “These are much better!”
I catch my breath as I understand his meaning. “These are the weapons you want me to ensoul.”
“Can you imagine sending a dragon against our enemies?” Raik’s expression is eager. “The legends say the teeth are sharper than steel.”
“Sharper, perhaps,” Cam says. “But not stronger. And the fire is the real problem.”
“I didn’t know about the avions until too late,” Raik shoots back. “Besides, the dragon is the symbol of the country. Of the king. We need a symbolic victory as much as we need a material one.”
The Tiger’s own face is unreadable in the dim light, but the silence is heavy. To cover, I tug at the leather joining of the knucklebones. A little loose for my taste; if this were my work, Papa would purse his lips and make me do them over. But we may not have the time for perfection. Chewing my lip, I consider the framework before me. “If we wrap the bones in wet leather, it might prevent the fire from taking hold. At least long enough for them to bear the avions to the ground.”
Cam shakes his head. “It might work against a handful of the things, but not a whole flock. Not with the way Theodora’s fire burns.”
“If we use a tiger’s soul, the fantouche will hunt the armée from the shadows,” I offer. “Maybe it would be best that way. Keep the bones out of sight.”
“You won’t use a dragon’s soul?” Raik asks.
“No.” I shake my head vehemently. “They’ve moved on.”
“They have.” Le Trépas’s voice floats toward us down the tunnel. “But not beyond our reach.”
“Don’t listen to him,” I say, but Raik puts up a hand.
“What does he mean?”
“I can fetch the dragon’s soul for you,” the old monk calls. “Cage it in its tattered skin. Send a creature like that against the invaders, and we will be unstoppable,” he adds. “Give me the bones and a blade and I’ll show you.”
Camreon shakes his head. “I’m not giving you a toothpick,” he says.
“You’re not the one I’m trying to convince,” Le Trépas replies. “Isn’t it the king’s decision?”
Tension coils under my skin. Le Trépas is pitting himself against me—and Raik against Camreon. But before he can reply, I hear shouting from outside the tunnel. “My king! My king!”
Both brothers turn as a rebel girl comes flying down the path and into the tunnel. Silhouetted against the bright sunlight outside, I can see her shoulders heaving.
“What is it?” Raik says as she catches her breath.
“Over the valley,” she pants. “Avions!”
My heart sinks—how did they find us? We’d been watching the sky on our trek through the jungle; there’s no way we were followed all the way inland. Cam swears under his breath. “How many?”
“Three so far,” she says, and he swears again. It isn’t as many as it could be—the village by the river is so small . . . so defenseless. The selfish hope rises: are Maman and Papa still at the temple somehow? But no—there’s no way she would have lingered with Le Trépas nearby.
The Tiger turns to his brother, speaking through his teeth. “Trustworthy connections, you say?”
Raik narrows his eyes. “It’s far more likely they followed you from Nokhor Khat.”
“Does it matter how they found us?” Le Trépas’s question cuts through the tension; there is urgency in his voice. “You were always going to have to face the avions. Let me help
you.”
“No!” Is Camreon talking to his brother or the monk? “Akra, keep a close eye on him. Jetta, come with me. Raik, stay hidden. You too,” he adds to the rebel girl as we pass.
Wide-eyed, she nods at him, ducking back into the mouth of the tunnel. Outside on the ledge, I blink up at the sky, my eyes adjusting to the light. There they are: three avions, coming straight up the valley. My heart hammers at the sight. I want to scream—run!—but the villagers are too far away to hear me. My hand goes to my satchel. Should I use the grenade? But there is no water here—none except what’s inside my flask of elixir. And with three avions, one grenade is not much use.
My hands shaking, I slip the pin from my hem, casting about for a heavy stone. At least there are plenty of songbirds nearby. As I kneel to mark a chunk of rock, the Tiger crouches beside me. “We’ll need more.”
“Then find the next, will you?”
He goes to search as I send the stone up into the air. But as it picks up speed over the greenery, the avions pass right by the little village. Relief breaks over me like a sunrise—but what is their target? Do they see me standing on the hillside? Are they aiming for the mines? No—they skim the side of the mountain, swooping by overhead. Then, in formation, they bank to circle above the tangled banyans that shelter my friends.
When Cam returns and sees the avions, the stone falls from his hands. “How did they pick out the temple?”
I don’t answer—I don’t know. And I’m too busy urging my makeshift missile after the warbirds. The stone seems to creep through the air; any moment, I expect the fire to rain down. But as the avions swoop low over the treetops, what they release is paper.
It cascades in clouds from each bird, fluttering over the trees, slips of white like flyers for a show. The sight is so unexpected, it takes my breath away. The surprise of it all takes my mind off the stone until it smashes straight down into the trailing avion.
The wing twists; the craft spins in the air. The avion is so close to the treetops that the jungle seems to reach up and swallow it whole. Has it hit the temple? We are far enough away that I cannot tell, but close enough to hear the distant sound of screaming.
As the other two avions turn their noses back toward Nokhor Khat, I pelt up the path. The errant wind scatters the papers across the mountainside.
Chapter Thirty
There are hundreds of the flyers—tossed across the valley, caught in the branches, drifting on the surface of the lake—and every one carries the same threat printed neatly in simple black on white. But when I reach the ridge, the hubbub at the temple pushes the armée’s message from my mind.
It isn’t clear from outside where the avion fell, so we follow the distant din through the sanctuary, dodging scattered knots of panicked rebels in the hall. I find Leo outside the dining room, searching faces. When he sees me, he rushes to my side. “Thank the gods you’re safe!”
“And the girls?” I say, still catching my breath.
“They’re fine,” he replies.
Over his shoulder, I peek into the dining hall. The once stately space is in shambles. Branches are strewn across broken tables; green leaves tumble down from the hole smashed in the canopy, and a bright groove has been scraped into the polished stone floor.
The avion is at the far end of it. One of the wings drags along the ground as the creature thrashes, struggling like the wounded bird she is. A handful of armed rebels hunker behind overturned tables, their guns trained on the metal beast, but their weapons won’t do much to protect them. Nor will the tables, if the fire comes. Warily, I eye the twin barrels of the flamethrowers, but the soldat inside is slumped across the controls. There is blood on his brow. Have I killed him? I search the room for his soul among the others, but no—he is moaning faintly.
There are more wounded huddling in the corners: a woman with a gash on her back, a boy having trouble breathing from the panic. Still others with cuts from the splinters and debris that fell from the living ceiling.
Cam’s voice cuts through the hubbub as he pushes through the crowd. “Clear the room! Take them to the docteur. You three, stay,” he adds, pointing to the rebels covering the soldat. “Don’t shoot if you can avoid it. We want the pilot alive. Jetta! Can you disable the avion?”
It is less a question than a command, but I hesitate. To make the symbol of death, I have to be close enough to touch the creature. Even without the flamethrowers, one sweep of a metal wing could cut me in half. But this is a chance to take one of the flying machines for the rebels. Am I fast enough on my feet to circle around to her tail? Cautiously, I enter the hall, stalking toward the creature, but Leo follows, shrugging off his jacket. “Let me.”
“Leo—”
“Shhhh,” he says. To me, or the avion? He lifts the jacket between his hands as though it is a net. But the cloth is barely enough to cover the creature’s head. I frown—is that his goal? I have seen hawks calmed with a hood; would the avion respond the same way? The creature seems wary, shifting on metal claws as though tracking his movement. My own muscles tense as I wait for Leo to spring forward, to fling the jacket from a distance, but he moves slowly, steadily, till his own face is inches from the wicked curve of the steel beak. “Shhhhh.”
Gently, he slips the cloth over the creature’s head; in the sudden darkness the bird goes still—calm. Suddenly, a memory surfaces: Leo back in Luda, as he stood before Lani, the water buffalo that used to pull our roulotte. “You were right,” I say softly. “You are good with animals.”
“They’re only carrier pigeons, aren’t they?” With a half smile, Leo strokes the metal neck. Can the soul feel his touch? The avion only shakes its massive wings, as though trying to fluff feathers. “All they want is a dark nest after a long flight. And to go home, of course.”
“I don’t care where the soul goes, as long as it leaves the avion.” Cam gives me a pointed look. My hand is still bloody from marking the stone—it is almost simple to draw the symbol. The empty circle, the staring eye: death. The avion shudders again; a moment later, the pigeon’s soul spirals up toward the canopy.
Leo pulls his jacket off the creature—now just a lump of steel—as Camreon waves the other rebels forward. They haul the soldier from his seat, his eyes fluttering open as they lay him out on a table, calling for the docteur. But I remain beside the avion, looking at the blood—my blood—drying on the wing. Suddenly, I feel so drained. And what about the soldier? “Will he live?” I call to Cam, wanting desperately not to have killed him too.
“For a while,” Cam says, and the answer does not soothe me. He plucks one of the flyers off the floor as he follows the rebels and their prize. “I have questions.”
Will he torture the man? I shouldn’t ask—I know the answer. After all, this is war, this is the Tiger. I want more than anything to leave with Leo, to find somewhere quiet and close my eyes. But then, on the table, the soldat cries out.
The sound makes me jump—a wordless groan, pressed through clenched teeth. The boy’s body starts to jerk uncontrollably, and the rebels lose hold of his limbs as they flail.
“Get his mouth open!” Camreon races to the soldier’s side, but foam is already gathering at the corners of his lips as they turn blue.
“What is it?” I whisper, horrified.
“Poison.” Leo’s face is troubled. “The armée gives them capsules sometimes.”
“Another invention from the scientist?” Leo clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t defend his sister. The soldier’s soul steps free, and Camreon swears as the body goes limp. Yanking down the soldier’s collar, he presses two fingers under the boy’s jaw, cursing again when he finds no pulse.
“Jetta!”
“What?”
“Don’t let him escape!”
I glance at the body—at the wandering soul—then back to the Tiger as understanding dawns. “Cam—”
“We need to know what he’s trying to hide,” he growls. “Please.”
I grit my teeth as I approa
ch the soldier’s body. For a moment, all I can see is Akra, lying too still on the stone floor of Hell’s Court. So I turn away as I mark the soldier’s clammy flesh. I don’t want to see him drawn back to his skin. I hear it, though—oh, I hear it. The way his heels drum the table, the rattle of breath in empty lungs, the gasp of the rebels as they witness the soldier’s rebirth.
And then—even worse—his voice in my head. “Kaveh vou fait?” he whispers, but when I turn back, I can see his jaw is still clenched—his blue lips do not move. “What have you done?”
Cam grabs the soldier’s jaw and turns his head. “How did you find us?”
The soldier refuses to speak—at least, to the Tiger. But he is mine now, isn’t he? “Answer his question.”
“A report,” the soldier spits, as though the words are being dragged up his throat on a hook. “From the questioneurs.”
“The questioneurs?” Cam grits his teeth. “It must have been one of Raik’s contacts.”
“Does it matter?” Leo says softly. “They know where we are.”
“Tell me about this, then.” Cam holds up the flyer. “How many avions is the general sending?”
“All of them.”
The soldier’s claim makes my stomach drop. The Tiger looks at me. “Can he lie, Jetta?”
“Tell the truth,” I order the soldier.
He curls his lip. “I have.”
Leo’s face goes pale; he puts one hand on the table, as though to steady himself. “How can we stop so many so soon?”
“I know what Le Trépas would say,” Cam murmurs darkly. The monk’s words come back to me too: kill the creator. I shift on my feet, wary—is the Tiger thinking about me, or the general? Leo takes my hand, protective, but Cam keeps his eyes on the soldier. “How far are they?”
“A few hours behind me,” the soldier says.
“All in a group, or will they try to surround us?”
“How should I know?” the pilot says. “I had my orders. They have theirs.”
