She was quiet. I had listened to her, and she was returning the courtesy.
‘That’s what humans do. We make. We remake. We build, and we rebuild. And yes, sometimes we paint with blood, and we tear down our own civilisations, and it might never stop. But if we’re ever to unlearn our darker instincts, we have to be free to learn better ones. Take away the chance for us to change, and I promise you, we never will.’ I looked her in the eye. ‘I’m willing to fight for that chance.’
Nashira appeared to digest this. She stood facing London, a metropolis created by centuries of humanity. London, with its secret, folded layers of history and beauty, as perfectly formed as the petals of a rose. The deeper you ventured into its heart, the more there was to peel away.
‘The Grand Overseer has petitioned me to stay your execution,’ the blood-sovereign said. ‘For a human, he is . . . insightful. He believes that if I do not allow your gift to continue burgeoning over the years, I may not inherit it at its fullest. I told the Archon’s staff to assess you. They agree that your talents have not matured – or that you are simply weak.’
The pain had been a test, then, and I had failed.
‘For now, you are all I have. Until I find another dreamwalker, I may consider this proposal. I may consider sending you to France, under a new identity, to live out the rest of your natural life in Sheol II.’
‘What do I have to do?’
Not even her eyes moved.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘where I can find the Mime Order.’
Two words now stood between me and my execution. All I needed to say was crisis facility.
I could lie my way to borrowed time. I could give her the name of a random street or an abandoned building.
‘If you deceive me,’ Nashira said, ‘you will find that I am less merciful in the manner of your execution.’
There was no way out of this. It was the truth or nothing.
I chose nothing.
‘I am Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London.’ I raised my head. ‘I will be that until I go to the æther, and if there’s one thing I can do, it’s give them a chance. If I give you any part of the Mime Order, I give you hope. And I can’t take that away from them.’
She was silent for what seemed like hours. Before either of us could speak again, Alsafi came back through the doors.
‘Are you finished with the prisoner, blood-sovereign?’
Nashira’s nod was hardly visible. She didn’t even look angry; just blank. My legs shook, but I slapped on a mask of defiance before I followed Alsafi out of the Inquisitorial Gallery.
I risked a glance as we walked down the corridors. I had no idea what the surveillance was like; better to wait for him to speak. He wore what he had in the colony: that old-fashioned, uniformly black attire, with a cloak over it all. His face was more readable – more alive, somehow – than those of other Rephaim, with eyes of a lamp-bright green. This was a Rephaite who took his fill of aura whenever he pleased.
‘We do not have long,’ he muttered. ‘Your cell is under close surveillance. What advice do you have for me?’
‘Senshield is here – in the Archon. The core is beneath a glass pyramid,’ I said, ‘in a room with pale walls. I think it’s somewhere high up – in a tower, maybe – somewhere the Archon’s personnel wouldn’t be able to stumble upon it by chance, or sense it. There’s a white light, too. Bright enough that you might be able to glimpse it from outside.’
His face didn’t betray whether he recognised the image.
‘It can be destroyed, but not by me,’ I said. ‘They’re keeping me sedated; I can’t dreamwalk. It will have to be you.’
‘It is here, then.’ His tone was musing. This must be an unwelcome surprise – the realisation that it had been right under his nose without his knowledge. It was only my gift that had allowed me to find it, and Alsafi was no dreamwalker. ‘I assume you know how to deactivate it.’ When I didn’t answer, he said, ‘I cannot risk my position in the Archon for anything less than certainty. Sacrifice without gain is folly.’
‘I can’t be certain,’ I admitted, ‘but – we did find evidence.’
His jaw tensed.
‘The core is likely powered by one of Nashira’s spirits, which is bound – probably by her blood – to some kind of glass sphere.’ I spoke as softly as I could. ‘If you destroy the casing it’s contained in, it should release the spirit.’
‘And you believe this will stop all of the scanners.’
‘Yes.’
I couldn’t be certain of it; and yet I was, in my gut. To make that many scanners work, surely they must need to contain the spirit in one place, keeping its scores of connections stable.
Alsafi kept walking.
‘There is precedent to your reasoning,’ he concluded. ‘If a spirit is released from an ethereal battery, the energy generated by its presence is dispersed, and the battery ceases to function. Even if the core is a different form of ethereal technology . . . dislodging the spirit might impair it, if nothing else.’ He slowed down, buying us a few moments. ‘The executioner will be summoned soon. I cannot help you escape.’
‘I know.’
His gaze slid to my face. ‘Colchicum.’ Pause. ‘You did not intend to escape.’
I gave him no answer.
We were approaching the door to the basement now, and in sight of the Vigiles who now guarded it. They saluted Alsafi before they marched me back into the tomb below.
23
A Priori
Ten days until my execution. It must be meant as a cruel delay, giving me time to wonder what kind of agony awaited me. The sword would be too good for the human who had dared to stand against the blood-sovereign. Perhaps she meant for me to die in one of the ways she had told me about, to prove that my faith in humanity was misplaced. They must expect me to crack under the pressure, to beg Jaxon to spare my life and take me with him to France.
I didn’t. I waited quietly for death – but before I joined the æther, I wanted to know that Alsafi had destroyed Senshield.
When the drugs came, I was grateful. I submitted willingly to the Vigiles’ hands, to the needles I no longer felt – they took away the fear that my death would be in vain. With every hour that Alsafi was unwilling or unable to take action, the Mime Order remained in the Beneath.
One night, the Vigiles got me out of bed and put me on the waterboard again, seemingly for their own amusement. When they dumped me back in my cell, soaked and exhausted, there was a supper tray waiting. I inched towards it and choked down as much of the mush as I could.
That was when I found the tiny strip of paper, buried in the food. It was stained, but legible.
DOCK
I breathed easier. Dock. Patience. He must be biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to reach the core without compromising his position. The thought was comforting for a while.
But more days passed, and I heard nothing. And no more notes came with my food.
31 December, 2059
New Year’s Eve
I was woken one morning by a Vigile aiming the beam of his torch into my eyes.
‘Rise and shine, Underqueen.’ I was lifted to my feet. ‘Time to die.’
I was too tired to fight.
First I was transferred to another cell, on one of the Archon’s main upper corridors. The door was made up of bars.
The New Year Jubilee was set to be the biggest event in years. It would take place in the Grand Stadium, which was only ever used for ceremonies. There was a screen at the end of the corridor, and I could just make out the broadcast.
Murmurs echoed between the walls as dignitaries and ministers from the Archon filed past my cell on their way to watch the show. Several of them stopped to scrutinise me. Among them were the Minister for Surveillance; the portly Minister for Arts; the sallow-faced Minister for Transport, whose nose betrayed her illegal drinking habit. Luce Ménard Frère and the French emissaries spent a considerable amount of time observing what a
frightening creature I was. All the while, I fixed them with a dead-eyed stare. When the French party got bored, Frère stayed behind, one hand on her rounded abdomen.
‘I am pleased,’ she said, ‘that my children will grow up in a world without you in it.’
She walked away before I could think of a reply.
Now I understood why I was in this cell. For my last hours, I was to be displayed as a war trophy.
Jaxon came to the door for one last look. I thought I could see authentic sorrow on his features.
‘So this is the end,’ he said. Somehow he sounded both angry and solemn. ‘I present you with an opportunity to live, to keep your gift from fading into nothing, and you spit at it.’
‘That’s my choice,’ I said. ‘It’s called “freedom”, Jax. It’s what I fought for.’
‘And how hard you fought,’ he said gently. He turned away. ‘Goodbye for now, O my lovely. I will remember you fondly, in your absence, as my unfinished masterpiece; my lost treasure. But bear this in mind: I do not like to leave things unfinished. Not masterpieces, and certainly not games. And perhaps our game is only just beginning.’
I raised one eyebrow. He really was a madman.
With the softest of smiles, he was gone.
Unfortunately, Jaxon was not my last visitor. The next was Bernard Hock, the High Chief of Vigilance – one of the few people in the Archon who was permitted to be voyant, who I had seen once before in the penal colony. He looked less than pleased to be in a suit as he entered my cell.
‘Don’t cry now, bitch.’ He grasped my arm and stabbed a needle into it. ‘Just lie there nice and quiet. The executioner will be here after the Jubilee . . . then you’ll cry.’
I shoved him off me. ‘How does it feel to hate yourself as much as you do, Hock?’
In answer, he backhanded me and left the cell. Soon, the sounds of conversation waned from the corridors.
I shivered on the floor, cold to my bones. It was a short while before the Sargas finally passed, accompanied by Frank Weaver and several other high-ranking officials, including Patricia Okonma, the Deputy Grand Commander. They must be going separately from the rest.
Alsafi brought up the rear. The sight of him made the hairs on my nape stand on end.
None of them so much as glanced at me, but as Alsafi walked by, I saw – as if in slow motion – a tiny scroll fall from his cloak and land within my reach. I waited until they were out of sight before I snatched it.
EUPATORIUM ICE PLANT CLEMATIS GROUND LAUREL
Eupatorium: delay. Ice plant: your looks freeze me. Clematis: that could either mean mental clarity or artifice, if I remembered correctly. Ground laurel: perseverance.
I read it several times.
Delay – it hadn’t happened.
Frozen by a look – he was being watched.
I leaned against the wall of my cell and grasped my own arms, as if that could hold me together. I didn’t know what mental clarity or perseverance were supposed to mean to me now, but one thing was clear.
He hadn’t done it.
And I couldn’t do it. I had already been drugged – rendering my gift useless – and in a few hours, I would be dead.
With a mewl of frustration, I buried my face in my knees.
They had broken me; Nashira and Hildred Vance had succeeded in breaking me. I was a malfunctioning mind radar. I shook with silent, rib-racking sobs, loathing myself for being so stupid as to hand myself to the anchor; so arrogant as to think I could survive for long enough to carry out the mission.
Trembling, I read the note again, trying to control my breathing. Ground laurel. Perseverance. What the hell did that mean? How could he persevere if he was being watched?
Clematis. Mental clarity. Artifice. Which of the two meanings did he intend me to take from it, and why?
I crumpled the note into my hand.
Nashira will not let you go once you are in her clutches. She will chain you in the darkness, and she will drain the life and hope from you.
When music sounded in the corridor, I raised my head. The transmission screen outside my cell was now fixed on the live broadcast of the Jubilee. The walls inside the stadium were covered by black drapes, each bearing an immense white circle with a golden anchor inside it.
Hundreds of tiered seats provided the best views. The groundlings, with cheaper tickets, had gathered at the edges of the vast, ring-shaped orchestra pit, and were craning their necks to see the top of the stage.
‘Esteemed denizens of the Scion Citadel of London,’ Burnish said, and her voice resounded through the space, ‘welcome, on this very special night, to the Grand Stadium!’
The roar was deafening. I made myself listen.
That was the sound of Scion’s victory.
‘Tonight,’ Burnish said, ‘we welcome a new year for Scion, and a new dawn for the anchor, the symbol of hope in a chaotic modern world.’ Applause answered her. ‘And now, before the stroke of midnight, it is time for us to reflect upon two centuries of our rich history, brought to you by some of Scion’s most talented denizens. Tonight, we celebrate our place in the world, and embrace our bright future. Let us set our bounds ever wider, and grow ever stronger – together. The Minister for Arts is proud to present – the Jubilee!’
The ovation rumbled on for almost a minute before mechanisms began to move in the stadium. A performance, then. Or a message from Vance. Look at our imperial might. Look at what you failed to thwart.
A platform rose, and the light ebbed to a twilight ambience. On the platform, a line of children sang a soulful rendition of ‘Anchored to Thee, O Scion’. When the audience gave them a standing ovation, they took a bow, and a new stage was drawn up, this one decked with the old symbols of the monarchy. A man, dressed as Edward VII, performed a lively dance to a violinist’s music, accompanied by actors in lavish Victorian gowns. Once the séance table was brought on, the dance became more tormented, and I understood that this was the story of Scion’s origin – heavily edited, of course, to remove the Rephaim from the equation. The lighting enflamed, and more performers swept on to the stage, executing acrobatic dances around the principal actor, clawing away his regalia. He was the king who had dabbled in evil, and they were the unnaturals he released into the world. Just like the play at the Bicentenary, all those months ago.
The scenery began to change. Now it was a shadow theatre, and new actors were forming the shapes of skyscrapers and towers, rising ever higher until their figures loomed over the stage, where the dancers had all fallen to their knees. This was the remaking of London, the rising from the ashes of the monarchy. The music swelled. Scion had triumphed.
The stage cleared of actors. The lights went out. When they returned, they were cool and muted.
A woman in an embroidered bodice with a black skirt, her fair hair coiled at the crown of her head, was poised on her toes in the middle of the stage. I recognised her at once: Marilena Brașoveanu, Scion Bucharest’s most beloved dancer. She often performed at official ceremonies.
Brașoveanu was as still as a porcelain doll. When the camera focused on her, close enough for every viewer to see the finest details of her costume, I realised the skirt of her dress was made up of hundreds of tiny silk moths.
She was the Black Moth.
She was me.
The stadium fell silent. Brașoveanu sailed around the stage to the tune of a piano, fluid yet erratic. Then another dancer ran out – the Bloody King – and snatched her hand, spinning her into his arms. I watched, mesmerised, as the Black Moth danced a pas de deux with him. She was the Bloody King’s heir; the herald of unnaturalness, of sin.
The dance became faster. Brașoveanu whirled her leg out in front of her and tucked it behind her other knee, over and over, while the lights raced red around her and the music became ferocious, like a storm. The Bloody King lifted her above his head, then swung her into his arms again. She was seduced by evil. Actors held signs marking them as FREEDOM and JUSTICE and THE NATURAL OR
DER. Then an army, who had been waiting in the shadows, stepped forward, and all of the actors fell down with their signs, murdered where they stood, while the Bloody King brought the Black Moth gently to a stop. She walked into the blaze of a spotlight, her arms raised high. This was the moment of my death in Edinburgh.
It was beautiful.
They had made my murder beautiful.
Slowly, Brașoveanu took centre stage. A hush had fallen. When she spoke, she raised her head high, and I was sure I saw the dark fire of hatred in her eyes.
‘We need everyone,’ she said, and her microphone sent it all around the stadium, into the home of every viewer in the country, ‘or everyone loses.’
I froze. My own words, a call to revolution, spoken on a Scion stage – that couldn’t be right. The camera, which had just panned to the Grand Box, caught the complacent smiles of the ministers stiffening before it cut back to the stage. There was an apprehensive silence.
This had not been part of their plan for tonight.
Brașoveanu took her bow; then she slipped a silver pin from her bun and peeled open her throat.
Screams erupted from the groundlings, the only ones close enough to see the red sheeting down her neck. I stared, thunderstruck, as she dropped the pin. That blood was as real as mine.
Brașoveanu collapsed on the stage, as elegantly as she had moved in life. The orchestra played on. The male dancer, who was wearing an earpiece, lifted her wilted frame into his arms and raised her above his head. He pirouetted with a plastic smile before dancing off the stage. Though the groundlings were in disorder, most of the audience were still cheering.
Something kindled deep within me. Marilena Brașoveanu was Romanian. She had witnessed an incursion, too – and now, tonight of all nights, she had used her own blood to spoil the beauty of the anchor’s lies.
A Vigile rattled the bars of my cell.
‘Come here, 40.’
One hand beckoned me. The other held a syringe. A top-up dose of the drug.
The drug.
Goosebumps covered my arms. Seeing that needle, I realised what I hadn’t before, entranced as I was by the Jubilee.
The Song Rising Page 33
