For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  Eve nods. “Last year at La Fête, someone told me that Le Roi Fou converted his ballroom to a shadow theater.”

  I tense at the word fou—mad—but they aren’t looking at me. And a slow grin is spreading across Cheeky’s face. “So then,” she says deliberately, “how does he hold his balls?”

  The girls burst out laughing again, but the numb feeling is returning. “We were on our way to La Fête,” I say softly. “We were trying to get to Aquitan.”

  Across the table, Maman’s face cracks like a bowl, and the bleak despair in her eyes is somehow the worst thing I’ve seen tonight. It eats at me too: we’ve come all this way, and our destination has never been further out of reach. Seeking comfort, giving comfort, I take her hand in mine. “Don’t worry, Maman,” I say, though the words are hollow. “There’s bound to be another way.”

  “Another way?” Maman grips my fingers—her whole body tenses, as though she’s trying to hold herself together. “And what will that be?”

  My fingers hurt, but I only squeeze her back until our knuckles both turn white. A hundred answers flit through my head—to build a boat with a turtle’s soul, and ride it across the Hundred Days Sea. To step from behind the scrim—no longer a wonder but a marvel, and wait for the world to shower us with coin. To march to Nokhor Khat and demand an audience with the Boy King himself. He would be amazed by what I can do. Or would he be afraid? Either way, I’m sure I could convince him to help.

  Papa puts his hand over our twisted fists, his voice low—trying to soothe, or to silence? “We’ll find a way,” he says. “In the morning, we’ll ask around. They may rebuild the stages. Le Fête may still go on. The Boy King is still getting married, after all. The royal couple is still going to Aquitan. And Le Roi Fou will still want his shadow plays.”

  Ever the optimist—ever the storyteller. But under Maman’s strict eye, what other option do we have?

  The girls are shifting uncomfortably, pretending not to listen. The snake slithers across Eve’s bare shoulders. “I was trying to save enough to leave,” she says finally, into the prickly silence. “But the river gods raise the prices after each attack.”

  Papa cocks his head. “River gods?”

  “The men who sell passage on the boats.” Carefully, Eve wraps a bandage around my heel. “They stand between this life and the next, judging your worth. Somehow they find me wanting,” she adds with a winsome smile, but I can see the fear underneath.

  I glance around the room then: Cheeky with her jokes, Tia with her pride, Eve with her sweet smile. But ultimately, just some girls in a dirty dive along the northern jungle, with smudged makeup and holes in their stockings. I understand their laughter now—it is just another act. How many people want to flee but have no route to safety? We were lucky we had a chance—have a chance, if the money in our roulotte is still there by morning.

  “How much is passage?” I ask. Across the table, Maman’s eyes snap to mine, and hope creeps back across her face.

  Eve only shrugs. “You’ll have to go ask at the dock. I stopped checking a while back. Or Leo might know.”

  Tia frowns, looking up from her wig. “Where is Leo, anyway?”

  “Never ask where a man goes,” Cheeky says loftily. “He might get the impression you want him to come back.” Then she puts a gentle hand on my shoulder as I start to rise. “The dock will still be there in the morning. Even I wouldn’t go out there alone tonight.”

  “Will the armée keep us safe in here?” I ask, and she grins.

  “Sure,” she says. “As long as they stay out there.”

  * * *

  Sent at 2106h

  General Legarde at Luda

  To: King Alendra at Nokhor Khat

  GUERRILLA ATTACKS ACROSS VERDU STOP TWO

  REBELS CAPTURED IN LUDA STOP SITUATION

  UNDER CONTROL STOP QUESTIONEUR

  EXTRACTING INFORMATION

  Sent at 0136h

  Theodora Legarde at Nokhor Khat

  To: General Legarde at Luda

  ON THE CUSP OF IMPORTANT DISCOVERY STOP

  URGE YOU TO RECONSIDER SENDING ME TO

  AQUITAN

  Sent at 0343h

  General Legarde at Luda

  To: Capitaine Chantray at Nokhor Khat

  TIGHTEN SECURITY AT PALACE STOP

  RETURNING TO NOKHOR KHAT

  Sent at 0346h

  General Legarde at Luda

  To: Theodora Legarde at Nokhor Khat

  LE RÊVE WILL SAIL AS PLANNED AND YOU

  WILL BE ABOARD STOP URGE YOU TO WORK

  FASTER

  * * *

  Act 1,

  Scene 5

  At the encampment, predawn; inside the general’s tent. Through the canvas comes the sound of men and horses waking. Though the tent is roomier than the others, the sparse decoration gives it an empty feel; there is a single kerosene lamp, a standard armée cot, a lone travel trunk holding spare uniforms. Indeed, the only nod to the general’s status is the field desk, and the fine fountain pen in his hands.

  GENERAL JULIAN LEGARDE is marking a map with the locations of last night’s attacks when his son, CAPITAINE XAVIER LEGARDE, steps into his tent. He waits for a moment—patient, even tentative, but the general does not look up.

  XAVIER: Sir?

  LEGARDE: Reportez.

  XAVIER: I sent the telegrams and alerted the cavalry. They’re readying the horses. Your men should be ready to move before dawn. And I updated the recherche for the Tiger, adding these newest crimes.

  LEGARDE: You distributed it via telegraph?

  XAVIER: And in Chakran, sir. Before dawn, the country will know there were shadow players among the dead.

  LEGARDE (nodding, satisfied): That should do some good. The locals love their storytellers.

  XAVIER: Not only the locals. Speaking of which, a letter came.

  XAVIER hands it over. LEGARDE looks at the envelope—weather-stained from long travel, but finely milled and sealed with gold-flecked wax stamped with a sunburst: the symbol of Le Roi Fou, LEGARDE’s half brother. He tosses it on his desk.

  LEGARDE: Any response from Nokhor Khat?

  XAVIER: Not yet, but it’s still very early.

  LEGARDE: If anything comes after I leave, send it on downriver. Unless it’s from your sister.

  XAVIER: Is there trouble?

  LEGARDE (making a wry face): She keeps trying to get out of going to Aquitan.

  XAVIER: If I may, sir . . .

  LEGARDE: You too?

  XAVIER: Her work here has been vital to the effort.

  LEGARDE: Her marriage will be as well. And she won’t be gone as long as she thinks. What about the prisoners?

  A flicker of distaste crosses XAVIER’s face.

  XAVIER: The two dead will be put on display, as per your standing orders. What do you want done with the last one?

  Now LEGARDE looks up, surprised, impressed.

  LEGARDE: He’s still alive?

  XAVIER: Barely.

  LEGARDE: Hmm. (Idly, he taps the desk with his pen.) See if the docteur can patch up what’s left of him. He’ll set a different example.

  XAVIER: Which example is that?

  LEGARDE: We show strength in mercy, Xavier.

  XAVIER: The questioneur is many things, but merciful is not one of them.

  LEGARDE gives his son a look, his eyes dropping to the gold pendant XAVIER wears—a golden circle on a chain.

  LEGARDE: I know at times our tactics are at odds with your beliefs, but this information will save lives on both sides.

  Finally XAVIER’s frustration breaks through his calm facade.

  XAVIER: What information? Every claim the rebels made contradicted the last! After the first hour they would have said anything. Besides, there’s no way a green farm boy knows what the Tiger himself is planning.

  LEGARDE: Not his information. The information we send when his comrades see exactly what they’re risking.

  XAVIER: I don’t think the threat of
torture will sway the rebels.

  LEGARDE: It isn’t just the rebels that concern me.

  He leans back in his chair, regarding his son.

  LEGARDE: These guerrilla attacks are cowards’ tactics. The Tiger’s men creep in the dark, strike as fast as they can, then throw down their weapons and melt back into the population. Unfortunately, they get the job done. The locals are intimidated. Maybe even impressed. Especially when the perpetrators escape with no consequences. This country is full of green farm boys, Xavier. Most who leave the fields join the armée. But the stronger the Tiger looks, the more likely they are to take his side. The rebellion is still relatively small. I’d like to keep it that way.

  XAVIER: But one of the crimes on the Tiger’s recherche is torture, and you know how the locals feel about that. If we denounce him for that, then publicly stoop to his level—

  LEGARDE: The difference is, he does it to his own people. We only do it to our enemies. Besides, it might boost morale in our own ranks. I’m not unaware of the . . . ugliness brewing.

  XAVIER: It might help if you let the men pursue the rebels when they strike.

  LEGARDE: We don’t have the numbers to chase them through their own territory. Or the ability to tell the Tiger’s men from innocent villagers, out in the jungle.

  XAVIER nods reluctantly. Then he frowns.

  XAVIER: If you know the rebels’ information isn’t any good, why are you going back to Nokhor Khat?

  LEGARDE smiles a little, gesturing to the map laid out before him.

  LEGARDE: Tell me what you see here, capitaine.

  XAVIER approaches his father’s desk to glance over his shoulder. His jaw clenches, unclenches, as he considers.

  XAVIER: Points of attack, all along Le Verdu.

  LEGARDE: What kinds of attacks?

  XAVIER: . . . Sabotage.

  LEGARDE: And close to their own territory. Why? We know they hide all over the country. Farm the fields until they get their orders. Attacks like these only need half a dozen men. Why limit strikes to Le Verdu?

  XAVIER (slowly): You think they’re trying to draw your attention away from the capital?

  LEGARDE: Away from the wedding. The last thing they want is an Aquitan queen.

  XAVIER considers this for a moment.

  XAVIER: What if it’s only a ruse to get you to leave the area?

  LEGARDE: They’ll have you to contend with in my absence. I’m leaving you in command.

  XAVIER raises an eyebrow.

  XAVIER: Not Pique?

  LEGARDE: Certainly not. We want the locals managed, not terrorized.

  XAVIER: He has seniority. Experience.

  LEGARDE: Are you a coward now too?

  XAVIER: No, sir.

  XAVIER straightens his back, but LEGARDE sighs.

  LEGARDE: Pique has been here too long. In war, there are some experiences that do more harm than good.

  XAVIER hesitates, then, shifting on his feet . . .

  XAVIER: Are the rumors true, sir? The rebels going south to . . . to—

  LEGARDE: To free Le Trépas?

  Now XAVIER shudders, fishing the gold pendant from his uniform and raising it to his lips in a motion that borders on ritual. LEGARDE only shakes his head.

  LEGARDE: The Tiger is ruthless, but he isn’t mad. He wants the throne for himself.

  XAVIER: Perhaps he hopes they can set their differences aside to fight a common enemy.

  LEGARDE: Le Trépas can’t be bargained with. You were too young to remember—

  XAVIER: I’ve heard the stories.

  LEGARDE: Then you know the man was a zealot and his followers just as bad. Live burials. Dark magic. Abominations.

  XAVIER: Why have you kept him alive all these years? Why not an execution? Or an unfortunate accident in prison?

  LEGARDE does not answer right away. Instead, he steeples his fingers, watching his son over his hands.

  LEGARDE: There is a story in this country. I saw it first in shadow plays, but as Le Trépas gained power, it kept cropping up in rumors. That through pain, certain spirits could gain powers after death.

  XAVIER: I’ve heard those too. The n’akela. How they haunt their tormentors.

  LEGARDE: Some of his disciples believed they could do more than haunt. I saw men cut their own throats because they were sure their souls could simply steal new bodies, dead or living.

  XAVIER: And you believe that?

  LEGARDE: The Chakrans do. You must have noticed that they won’t look you in the eye. The blue color scares them. They think it means we’re possessed.

  XAVIER: I know. They’re superstitious. But what does that have to do with Le Trépas?

  LEGARDE: If the old monk were dead, someone could claim to be him—or his soul. The King of Death reborn. Do you understand? And I won’t let anyone drag this country back into a dark age of mysticism. The king’s marriage to your sister sends a symbol—that Chakrana is wedded to civilization, not savagery.

  XAVIER: Wedded to Aquitan, you mean.

  LEGARDE: We are civilization, in this place. We will bring them into the modern age, whether they like it or not.

  Then he frowns, glancing at the guns.

  That reminds me. What did the last rebel say about the missing weapons?

  XAVIER: Nothing believable. (He hesitates.) But the questioneur is Eduard Dumond—one of the men who lost a rifle. He says the story doesn’t make sense—that the guns must have been taken by a separate group of rebels.

  LEGARDE: Have him keep asking.

  XAVIER: I don’t know that the boy will live through more questioning.

  LEGARDE shrugs, rolling up the map—clearing his desk, except for the letter XAVIER brought.

  LEGARDE: C’est dommage. But isn’t that what you preferred? And it will save our docteur a visit.

  XAVIER’s face is carefully bland, but he salutes and leaves the tent. At his desk, LEGARDE sighs. Then he breaks the elaborate wax seal and bends his head over the letter.

  * * *

  Pour General Julian Legarde, Shepherd of Chakrana, leader at La Victoire, et mon demi-frère;

  Cher Julian,

  I read your letter from last month with great consternation concerning your report of the local rebellion gathering strength.

  I have long put my trust in you, giving you free rein to run our affairs in Chakrana as you see fit. Unfortunately, your most recent request for additional funding is still too opaque. A ragtag band of insurgents can’t possibly warrant such an expense. What armée are you trying to build with so much money?

  Chakrana has always been a profitable venture—especially since your famed victory, for which you were rightly commended. But I must weigh the costs of goods against the costs of protecting them. Can you elaborate on your need?

  As this letter will take another month to reach you there across land and sea, it is quite possible that you have already pacified the uprising. If not, I trust that the upcoming coronation will quell the resistance by giving the general population exactly what they want—a Chakran in a position of power. It is a lucky thing that by all reports, this particular Chakran wants nothing to do with governance. And while I’ve only met Theodora once, knowing you, I’m certain her influence on her fiancé will allow you to exert your own on the future king’s decisions.

  Cordialement,

  Votre demi-frère,

  Antoine Le Fou

  Roi des Aquitains

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Later, after our wounds are dressed and we’ve picked apart a meal of cold rice and hot tea, I lie awake on a pallet in Cheeky’s ramshackle room, listening to her soft snoring. She’s sharing a blanket on the floor with Tia; the girls insisted on giving my parents their own room, and me, a bed. Their generosity is overwhelming—I haven’t laid in a proper bed since the start of this year’s touring season, when we left Lak Na for the last time. Too bad I can’t enjoy it.

  How can anyone sleep after a day like this? I toss and turn,
my mind racing in circles, spiraling gently down, like the flyers, fluttering in the golden light, snatched away by the blast. The gunshots, the fire. The soldiers giving chase, the rebels clinging to the side of the roulotte. Help me, the boy says again and again, but he has my brother’s face.

  I bury my head in the thin pillow. Behind my eyelids, Akra’s easy smile dissolves into a skull’s rictus. My brother went off to fight the rebels—he was likely killed by one. So why do this boy’s screams still echo in my head? Guilt for watching him die? Or is it a hallucination brought on by my malheur?

  They crop up from time to time, when times are bad, but I haven’t had one of Akra in a while. The old ones were better—the ones just after he joined up. I would hear his voice in the fields, singing one of the story songs, the one about the three brothers and the King of Death. It was always the same part too: the middle brother asking death to spare him. But the sound was so real—so rich—that the first few times it happened, I would walk through the dusty paddies to look for him. Of course he was never there. And by the time his first letter arrived, along with a fistful of sols, the sound of his singing had faded away. It never came back—not even while we waited for his seventh letter, and the weeks stretched to months before, one by one, Maman, Papa, and I admitted in the silence of our hearts that he wasn’t coming back.

  I’d give all the money he sent and more to hear his voice again, even if it is only in my head.

  I’d give almost as much to stop the screaming.

  But perhaps this is to be expected. What is a normal reaction to an explosion—to a boy shot like a dog? Help me.

  Tossing aside the pillow, I slip out of bed on bandaged feet. I shouldn’t have finished that drink. Or maybe I should have asked for another. My mind flits to the bar down the hall—the rhum in the old kerosene jars—but though my mouth is watering, I will not stoop to theft. I need something else to do, something to settle my nerves, to take my mind off the dead, off dying. Usually, when I can’t sleep, I work on my fantouches. I could do so now, if the soldiers are gone.

  The room is lit dimly by a few hopeful souls, but I bat them out of my way as I creep to the door. Spirits are such strange things, or perhaps I’m still unused to their presence. It was only after the fire I started seeing them—I thought they were hallucinations too, at first. Shifting patterns of red, orange, gold—the memory of flame. But they persisted long after I could breathe again, after my blisters healed, after I could leave my bed. And over time, I noticed their movements—similar in death as in life—and I began to recognize them for what they were. The tiny vana of moths, drawn to candlelight; the arvana of songbirds, flitting through trees. And the akela of dead men, like tongues of flame, wandering the fields where they worked, or standing in empty doorways, remembering.